


Island Songs

by semi_sweet



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst, History, Love, M/M, Sex, Smut, Stuff, and i am sorry for what i do to them, at some point, so much love, they love each other so much i am a soft bitch
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-07-01 07:00:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15768981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/semi_sweet/pseuds/semi_sweet
Summary: I'll find you. I promise you, I'll find you.





	1. Öldur

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SnitchesAndTalkers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnitchesAndTalkers/gifts).



> HI I'll be updating this and my femslash fic probably on alternating weeks? It's messy rn bc your bitch is busy and supposed to be having a holiday but it was Snitch's birthday and I owe her one. Please have these words as a token of my love for you. Thanks. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, even if it's,,,,,,, been written very messily. 
> 
> No beta, we die like men.

There was something in the air that night, something unsettling and dangerous, Pete had felt it low in his gut as he’d watched the heavens and the fiery-tailed stars painting golden streaks across deep blues and inky blacks. Kometes, the Greeks had called them, a term adopted by many of his brothers, but he preferred to call them falling stars. There was something rather wonderous about a falling star, was there not? As he’d stood and watched, he felt a chill creep below his robes, a chill that made the hairs at the back of his neck stand on-edge, it was a tingle in his fingertips and a feeling of dread haunting the back of his mind. 

 

But the stars had been so beautiful.

 

They came on the waves, riding them with their wooden horses, their sails bulking in the strong Eastern winds, the dragons on the prows of the longboats looming over the monastery like a demon over man, except this was no demon. Demons couldn’t enter sacred grounds. Or maybe they were. Maybe that was why they burned them to the ground. On his knees, in front of the altar, the tall, stained glass window covering him in its protective cloak, a promise from God. He was not alone. He’d done well, he’d been brave, he could be proud of himself. He was going to the Lord now and the Lord would take care of him. 

 

He heard rather than saw them entering, their heavy, fur boots dull on the stone floor as they shuffled along, in search of gold, jewels, anything they could steal and destroy. Oh, how Pete wished for a choir of angels to sing him to sleep, to help him find the courage he needed to not run, to give him strength. This was the right way. He had pledged his life to Iona Abbey, he wasn’t going to break his vows now, after seven years. He prayed for a swift blow rather than the slow, choking death of a fire. 

 

Never had he been more certain of God’s existence than when he felt a rough, cold hand on the back of his neck, pushing his head down, exposing the skin below his hood and he bowed it, eyes shut and hands clasped in silent prayer. May the Lord take his soul and return it to the garden. His duty here was done. He was ready.

 

“Ekki hann!” Pete’s breathing hitched as the stern voice echoed its command through the nave, repeated by the vaulted ceiling as though it was mocking him, after all he had done, after all he had given, this was his reward? Pete had to accept his lot. So was the way of life. 

 

“Ég sagði yfirgefa hann! Ertu heyrnarlaus?” The cold at the back of his neck disappeared, leaving it exposed and Pete was only sure of one thing: He had never been so frightened in his life. God had promised him strength when he most needed it. Where was God?

 

Blue. Blue eyes. The colour of nordic ice, streaked with falling stars around the centre. He found himself transfixed by the bearded man before him, his golden hair, his pale skin, the way he was examining him carefully, like he was… like he was another human. Not just a commodity, a casualty, collateral damage. 

 

“Ég er Patrekr.” Pete’s heart hammered in his chest, racing at 1000 miles an hour, threatening to break free and finally,  _ finally _ release him of his fear.

 

He was so scared.

 

The Norse cocked his head not unlike a dog would, his bottom lip catching between his teeth and his brow furrowing as he did so. Pete swallowed past the heavy lump in his throat, his mouth hanging open as if it wanted to say something. 

 

“Þú skilur ekki?” What did he want? Why couldn’t he understand him? How Pete wished he were more like his patron, like Peter who had the aid of heavenly flames so the whole world understood the tongue he spoke. Where were his heavenly flames? Was he not Peter? Did he not carry his name and honour? 

 

The Norse tried a different approach, pointing his finger at his fur-clad chest. “Patrekr.” Patrekr… Pat… Patrekr… Patrick.

 

The penny dropped and Pete’s eyes went wide at the realization that… that the Norse was telling him his  _ Name _ . His mind floundered, trying to work out what best to say next, what would keep his head on his shoulders and his body from the flames. 

 

He didn’t want to die. Not really.

 

He lifted his own hand, directing his own finger at his chest in the same way Patrekr had. 

 

“Peter.” It seemed to be the right response. Patrekr’s face widened into a broad, white grin, well-kept teeth emerging from behind an equally well-kept beard. He stood up, leaving Pete on his knees in front of him and said to the man behind him: “Ég er að taka hann. Ég vil hann.” And then he walked away. Pete watched him as he climbed the steps to the altar where the ostensorium stood, catching the sunlight between its beams and glowing golden in the glory of the Lord. 

 

He took it.

 

He broke it open.

 

He removed the corpus christi. 

 

“No!” Pete was on his feet before he could think anything of it, already a step towards the Norseman, the heathen, the pagan who had dared set foot in this church, this sacred place of worship and murdered and mamed and pillaged and stolen and before the day ended he would probably burn it to the ground and leave. No survivors. Wasn’t that the way these things went? Oh, Pete had heard of Lindisfarne. They hadn’t been alone in it, the King of Mercia had arranged special protection for the monasteries on his coasts. 

 

They had no soldiers and no army. They only had faith. Faith and fists and Pete smacked his square in the face of the man who gripped his shoulder tightly, making his nose give with the most horrendous  _ crack _ . 

 

The red blood running from it mixed with the colours of the stained glass and twisted him into a monster. Pete stumbled back in shock and horror. He was not permitted to cause harm to others. That was not his calling. He staggered into a pillar, his back pressed against the cold stone and his nails scraping along the coarse surface of it. Whatever… whatever Patrekr had said, had meant… whatever had stopped this pagan before… 

 

He’d braced for pain, darkness, light, nothingness, heaven, hell, infinity and the end, an axe to the head. That was preferable, he presumed. That sounded quick. 

 

He’d not braced for harsh, loud laughter. Mocking, no, amused, no… impressed? 

 

“Hann er djörf og falleg! mér líkar við hann.” Peter didn’t dare take his eyes off the other one, the one with the broad shoulders, the axe dangling by his side, his arms - unlike Patrekr’s - bare and exposed to the cold, yet he did not shiver in the chill. 

 

“Taktu hann í bátinn. Ég er á leiðinni.” 

 

It was sort of horrific, not being able to understand what they were saying, not knowing if Patrekr had just ordered his death or his release. He sort of understood the Romans and their fear of Christ now, faced with the unknown, the familiar seems so important to protect. 

 

The bare-armed Norse gripped onto his arm, tight, so tight it would bruise for sure, and dragged him through his beloved church, through his home, along the way he could see them everywhere, their fat, filthy hands fondling gold that wasn’t theirs, their beards hiding their faces, the paint covering the rest, heavy helmets topping off the thick fur armour, swords, axes, bows, anything that would do as a weapon hung from their heavily studded belts as their greed drove them to thievery. They would all burn. One day. Long after the Abbey had already been razed to the ground. 

 

The heavy doors were kicked open and pete tried his best, his very best, to fight the fear and cowardice and stay, remain, die with his church as was right, but the Norse was stronger. So much stronger. The last thing he heard as the door fell shut behind him was the loud bellow of Patrekr’s voice filling the once sacred and now disgraced place. 

 

“Taktu það allt! Ekki fara fyrir neitt!”

  
  
  
  
  


It was so cold. Pete didn’t know how the Norse stayed warm as he sat, huddling his legs, at the back of the boat, the chill biting his bones, until he remembered the fur hugging their bodies and the cassock covering his. Patrekr was stood at the front, his stance alternating between looking out over the sea and carefully eyeing his men, to make sure none of them were slacking, no doubt, so he could beat and whip and throw overboard anybody who went out of time, anybody who slowed them down, as though they needed to row when strong winds tore at the sail. Pete wondered if he would ever see dry land again or if he was to freeze to death. From fire into ice. He wasn’t sure which one was hell. 

 

He couldn’t deny it suited Patrekr, life on the waves, his stocky body emitting power, control, elegance as he commanded the boat, as he judged the path ahead, as he read the skies and the oceans and the stars and aptly guided them through the dark claws of the water trying to drag them in, wind catching in his long hair, pulling at it like a million fingers coiling into it. He wondered if he had a wife, if they took wives. Maybe multiple wives for each? Maybe they passed their women around like savages. Pete could hardly imagine they followed the holy vows of marriage.

  
  


The snow crunched below Pete’s feet and he had never before been so grateful for solid land. He’d never been a strong sailor, but being kidnapped by a group of Norsemen and carted across the freezing seas of the north was another experience entirely and one he hadn’t really hoped he’d be involved in in his lifetime. 

 

The wet soaked through his shoes in no time, not made for this weather, the maritime climate may not be snow-free, but considerably warmer, nonetheless and it was not yet winter. Not in Scotland, anyway. Here, well, Pete would not have been surprised had he been told summer never comes up here. 

 

He was surprised to see the village, houses built into the earth, so the ground rose above them and served as a roof, the man-made parts constructed of wood and stone, a long, wide house in the middle of it all, a hall, more like. He watched the men pile into it, their loot over their shoulders and around their neck and Pete wanted to cry at the thought of it being molten down and destroyed. A hand clamping down on his shoulder prevented him from following, held him back and turned him around so he was facing Patrekr, whose face was stone but not unkind. He ushered Pete into one of the surrounding houses, one on the other side of the hall, dragging the door open with brute force, fighting against the snow piling up outside it. 

 

Inside was… warm. Surprisingly warm. There was no fire burning, no evident source of heat anywhere, but Pete felt the cold subside, at least a little, and watched carefully as Patrekr struck firestones to light the lint in the centre of the large single room. 

 

“Sit down.” 

 

Pete froze solid, a familiar stiffness returning to his joints, if for a different reason this time, and he stared at the short, stocky blonde man with his skilled hands and his blue eyes and his hair decorated with intricate braids. 

 

“You… you speak… you…”

 

“Yes, I speak English, can we skip to the part where you sit down and stop looming over me like a sad moose?” He gestured vaguely to one of the pelts laid out, but Pete, right now, wanted to do everything but accept his captor’s hostility. 

 

“Why didn’t you just speak English with me at… I mean, you knew I couldn’t understand you!” It was rather ridiculous, Pete had been frightened out of his wits, not understanding what was being said about him with no way of communicating with these savages. Patrekr just sighed heavily, rolled his eyes and pointedly gestured to the pelt again and this time, somewhat afraid this was his last warning, Pete sat down on it. 

 

“My men don’t know I speak English. I don’t want to scare them with it.” That seemed… surprisingly reasonable. Well, Pete supposed that in their eyes,  _ he _ must be the enemy! 

 

“Why… did you take me?” He treaded cautiously, not sure if he truly wanted it answered. There weren’t many possible reasons. He was going to end up scrubbing floors or herding cattle or being burned as a sacrifice to their pagan Gods and honestly, that was the worst thought. He would rather spend the rest of his life knee-deep in pig shit than being a sacrifice for heathens. 

 

But Patrekr didn’t reply. Instead, his ice blue eyes trailed over Pete’s body, squinting as though he was carefully inspecting every last inch of him, taking him apart and Pete had to look away because he couldn’t bear the way his cheeks heated up. 

 

“You’re dark for a monk.” Pete bit his lip. He kept his hair close-shaven so nobody would see what his mother had passed on to him. He could get away with it like this. Nobody asked questions. When had Patrekr got closer? Had he got closer? Pete may be losing his mind, this was it, after years and years in God’s service, eh was going to go mad on an island in the middle of nowhere. 

 

The fire was cackling away to itself as Patrekr touched his fingers to Pete’s lips like a child feeling its way through the world. Pete gulped heavily, not daring to back away, not sure what this savage wanted from him, why he’d taken  _ him _ . He figured it was best to do as he was told, as was wanted from him and if… Patrekr wanted to touch his face then… 

 

Pete had only ever kissed one person in his life and that was little Hollis, when they were both children, hidden away behind the bramberry bushes and the eyes of their parents. Innocent kisses the way children share them when they think they’re in love. That was nothing like this. 

 

Patrekr’s lips were more demanding, more certain of what they were doing, of what they wanted. And Pete knew he couldn’t want this, but-

 

“What are you… stop! Don’t…” Patrekr rocked back on his hands and knees, just a fraction, but enough so Pete could meet his eye. Dread settled in Pete’s gut, that feeling of inescapable anxiousness when you want to get something behind you but you can’t, when you’re waiting for the inevitable, when you have a secret that burns you alive but you can’t tell a soul. 

 

He tried to explain it as disgust, as shame, as fear, but somehow a part of him was telling him it wasn’t directed at the man in front of him. Pete drew a sharp breath when Patrekr moved forward again, his entire body tense and ready to run as he was reclaimed.

 

Everything about this was wrong. Surrounded by savages, kissing a… a guy and… 

 

Pete tried to scramble free as he felt himself being pushed backwards until he was lying on the floor, trapped between the man above and the pelt below. 

 

This was wrong this was wrong this was so, so, so, so wrong… 

 

But Pete stopped struggling. He suddenly realized how gentle it was, how warm and soft and comforting. He wasn’t sure how it happened, but he found himself cupping Patrekr’s face as a hand stroked over his shaved head. He knew he should stop. He knew. Pete whimpered quietly, trying to protest because this was  _ wrong _ , everything about it was just… was wrong! Eden was burning.

  
  


But he didn’t try to calm the flames.


	2. Waves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading this, I hope you enjoy it!  
> if you want some music to accompany this fic, go listen to Ólafur Arnalds' album Island Songs which is totally in no way what this fic is based on at all

The Midnight Sun was bittersweet to him, a beautiful day where the light never left, where the sky changed from clear blue to bright orange to deep purple and back, never showing the stars, never revealing darkness. The fires roared to provide heat rather than light, fish and ham were smoked, bread was baked, songs were sung, flagons upon flagons of ale were downed. Pete didn’t participate much in the celebrations, the festivities surrounding the endless day one of the few things he hadn’t learned to pick up, along with the habit of eating nothing but fish all day every day and certain twists and turns of Norse grammar he couldn’t seem to wrap his tongue around. No, Pete sat a little to the side, with the children playing soldiers, on the grass rather than one of the logs set up as benches surrounding the fire, picking at the ground absentmindedly, braiding hair, painting faces, anything they needed for their games. He’d sometimes glance over to the other adults, as they roared with laughter or began singing, sometimes he’d catch a pair of ice-blue eyes fixed on him, a smile painted on beautifully curved lips, jug raised towards him in solidarity and he would smile and nod back, patiently watching and waiting for them to finish their celebrations, for everybody to retire to their houses, for Patrekr to wander over, take his hand and lead him home, where they’d curl up beneath the deerskin and share body heat until they drifted off into that peaceful summer sleep.

 

Pete loved that part of the Midnight Sun. He dreaded what was to follow. 

 

The days got shorter and colder, the nights longer and bitter and soon the point would come where the hunt wasn’t sufficient, where rations were low and the decision had to be made: Wait it out and pray it got them through winter or find food elsewhere? 

 

It wasn’t Pete’s decision to make, far from it, he had as much say as the children when it came to politics. If they were to ask him, they’d always wait it out, always scrape through winter, always pray to the Gods and hope for the best. Not because he was a coward, not because he wanted to hide from the cold, but because standing on the black sand, watching the longboat carrying Patrekr sail out onto the rough late summer seas was the most hopeless he ever felt. 

 

Oh, he’d always come back, of course he had, he always promised he would, between sweet kisses and heavy, heaving breaths, vows whispered against and bitten into soft skin. Pete didn’t doubt he always would come back to him. As long as it was possible.

 

People died on raids, defenceless monks Pete had tried so hard to speak up for before realizing they were driven by more than mere greed, and strong men who couldn’t survive the sea or the army of metal men unexpectedly awaiting them on British shores. Patrekr was a strong man. They were always the first to go.

 

Pete’s fingers curled around the dewey grass, plucking at the blades as though they were bad thoughts he could weed out with nothing more than a little force. Gala broke into song, her hymn she sang to the every year, a voice that made everybody still and listen in awe. It was tradition to join in on the second verse, Patrekr had told him that much, but had he not, Pete would have had no idea, for the men, women and even children fell silent. It was beautiful. Simply and truly beautiful. 

 

Hagen fell into his lap, the little boy’s head lulling against his shoulder as Pete secured him in his arms and slowly began to rock back and forth. His tiny eyes were sliding shut against his will as he struggled to stay awake, obviously still wanting to run around with the other boys and girls, make the most of the long day.

 

“Hey little guy”, Pete soothed him in his best Norse. Which wasn’t very good, admittedly. Even after four years. It was not an easy tongue. “Are you ready to sleep? It’s so late, you should go to bed…” Hagen shook his head, rubbing his nose with his sausagey little fingers that always made Pete smile. 

 

“Should I tell you a story?” He tempted him, a whisper into the boy’s ear, a promise of dragons and knights and tales of the faraway island his daddy went to to bring them back food and gold. He perked up a little at that, his legs working frantically to get him into more of a sitting position and his eyes go wide in anticipation. Pete picked himself up off the floor, Hagen sitting on his arm as he went to find the boy’s twin sister, still going strong, her fists relentlessly pounding into Sindri who tried to laugh it off but looked positively terrified. Pete took her arm and gently pulled her towards their family’s hut, signalling to Dag and Solveig that he had their children and they weren’t being eaten by wolves somewhere in the lowland forest.

 

“So”, he starts off, his usual storytime voice he has become so familiar with in the past few years, ready to tell the children of the north of his old home, a place sitting at the back of his memory, almost as though it was only a story to himself, as well, “have I told you the story about the sea dragon and the ice bear?” 

  
  
  
  


They were fast asleep before Pete could even finish the tale, their soft snores filling the otherwise silent room and Pete tucked them in below their reindeer skins, making sure they stayed nice and warm, for even in the summer the north was cold.

 

“You’re so good with them.” It made Pete jump, the sound of his voice, even though it was gentle and far from what had terrified Pete so much all that time ago. Had he really been scared of him? It was hard to believe now when he felt his breast swell at the sight of Patrekr lounging against the frame of the door to the house. 

 

“We should have our own.” Pete raised his eyebrow at him, already close enough to be able to lay a hand on his waist, covered only by a rough shirt, the weather not yet cold enough for the heavy winter furs. 

 

“When you have learned how to grow one, get back to me”, he teased, nipping at Patrekr’s bottom lip. 

 

“Or maybe I’ll fuck one of those English maids and bring home some you can choose from.” 

 

“Hmm”, Pete hummed against his mouth, unphased by the suggestion, “you’d never fuck a maid, you fairy.” Patrekr let his head fall back against the wood and mustered the ceiling as though he was considering it, seriously considering this, his mouth twisting as he let his mind work over whatever images it was providing with. 

 

“Do you even know what women look like? Like…” Pete gestured vaguely between his legs and Patrekr glanced at him, his lip caught between his teeth as he wiggled his brow suggestively. “I bet you couldn’t even get it up.” If there was one thing he knew it was that Patrekr, unlike him, had never ever showed any sort of… desire towards a woman. Pete had not thought it possible, but upon asking had found out it was very much true. 

 

“Does it matter? As long as I’ve got you?” Pete was pulled in closer, a gentle, teasing kiss ghosted over his lips. 

 

“No”, he murmured, “I suppose not…”

 

They walked back home in silence, the tips of their fingers brushing lightly against each other, sending sparks and tingles through Pete every time. The fire’s roar had died down to a crackle, the orange light catching in Patrekr’s hair and beard and making them burn like the sun, his eyes golden to match. Patrekr was fire born of ice, his heart burning with passion and rage in its hardened shell. Pete would never cease to be in awe of him.

 

The minute the cabin door closed, they were all over each other. Pete launched himself at his man, they collided in an endless burst of colour as they kissed and kissed and kissed, Patrekr making tiny noises against Pete’s lips, mewls and moans because he was so beautifully vocal when it came to this, that hard shell removed and the fire within exposed. Not the roaring midsummer fire, not the burning torches lighting a hunt, not the flames consuming the coast of Britain, but candlelight. A small log fire. Warmth, comfort, protection, guidance. Pete clung to him as though his life depended on it, trapping him between his own body and the wooden pillar in the centre of the room. Patrekr had his hands on his face, cupping his cheeks and holding tight so he couldn’t leave. 

 

He wouldn’t.

 

He’d made that decision long ago, Pete would never leave him.

 

“Please”, he panted between kisses, breath hot and heavy, “please, Pete…” Pete’s hand slid down to his waist where he began rucking up his shirt, revealing the pale white skin of his legs inch by inch. He didn’t wear breeches in summer when it was too cold for Pete to even think of leaving his legs bare, but the born Norse was used to it. He unbuckled the belt tightening his clothing around his waist, allowing himself to lift it higher, high enough for him to be able to slide his fingers below the hem and brush against Patrekr’s hard length. He whined and simultaneously tried to lean into the touch an pull away and Pete smirked against his lips. He let his blunt nails scratch over trembling thighs - they were so sensitive he knew they’d turn red at his touch - and had Patrekr uttering a litany of pleas against his skin in seconds. Pete could let him beg more, could have him desperate if he wanted, the strong norseman at his feet pleading for his touch. He’d done it before. Patrekr was so wonderfully compliant at times. Not always. There were many nights where their roles were reversed, where Pete was the one desperate for release, there were more nights where they were on equal terms, but for now… 

 

Pete fell to his knees. 

 

Open-mouthed kisses were strategically peppered across Patrekr’s hips and thighs, accompanied with a hitching of his breath when they got close to where he craved them. Pete knew the minute he tasted his lover, he’d lose the control he had over the situation, he knew this was just a game, just gentle teasing beforehand. Patrekr knew what he wanted and Patrekr wanted Pete. 

 

He nipped at the inside of his leg with his teeth, gently gliding his tongue over the irritated skin before repeating his actions, heading upwards, inch by torturous inch as strong fingers curled into what little hair he had, nails scratching along his scalp. Pete buried his nose in the rose-gold curls at the base of his prick, drawing in the heavy, musky scent of  _ man _ . Patrekr always smelled good. He was always clean, always with that sweet, fresh scent of the milk he used to wash. 

 

“Pete…” he panted above him, his head leaned back against the wooden beam, “I swear to the Gods, if you don’t suck my dick right now I will feed you to the do- ah! AH!” He cried out as Pete sucked at his tip, slipping it past his lips and teasing his tongue over it, gathering up the salty taste already seeping out. 

 

“Oh, oh fuck, Pete…” he sunk down until Patrekr was tickling his gag reflex, wrapping his fist around the rest of his cock, stroking it in time with the bobbing of his head. On every alternate run, he’d carefully suck, making Patrekr’s hips twitch towards him, barely restrained by his consciousness. Pete pulled back until he was once again barely touching the tip, his hot breath ghosting over wet skin, angry, red, wet skin, beads of white pearling over it. He wrapped his hand around the hard cock and slowly pumped it, allowing himself to squeeze slightly every once in a while, making Patrekr whine as his attention was turned to lower down, damp kisses pressed to the sensitive skin of his balls before he licked over them in a broad sweep. He started thrusting into Pete’s fist as he took one of them into the heat of his mouth, sharp, desperate movements to drive himself closer, closer, closer....

 

Pete felt Patrekr’s release before it happened, a ripple of pleasure shooting through his body before Pete felt his balls tighten beneath his lips and the hot spurt of him against his hand. He’d wanted to take him back in his mouth, wanted to lick and suck until he felt the warm flood of Patrekr coating his tongue, but he had to satisfy himself with the taste of him as he licked his softening cock clean, making him wince for the sensitivity of it.

 

“S-sorry”, Patrekr panted once Pete had finished and stood back up, “I… wanted to fuck you, but…” as a means to silence him, Pete pressed their lips together once again, none of the desperation of before behind it as he let his tongue slip into Patrekr’s mouth, gently holding him close as he calmed his shivering limbs. 

 

“You taste gross,” he muttered, his face inches away from Pete’s so that all he could see was ocean blue. 

 

“That’s not me, it’s you.” Patrekr pulled a face of disgust at that. 

 

“Here, let me.” Pete bit his lip in anticipation as he felt two hands unlacing his trousers. They dropped to his ankles the moment Patrekr released them, his fingers instead curling around Pete’s own, hard dick. He kissed Patrekr, deep and wanting, as his cock was lazily stroked until he felt tightness coil in his gut, until he couldn’t help himself from desperately rutting into the loose fist, until he felt his own release shudder his body as he spilled out over Patrekr’s hand and both of their clothes. 

 

Patrekr cleaned them up, he always did, with a warm, damp cloth soaked in whatever made it smell so sweet he dabbed at his own sticky stomach, both of their hands and removed Pete’s shirt along with his to leave it to soak overnight. Pete watched him as he walked around their cabin clearing up, watched the way his hips swayed and his arse moved in time to his steps, watched the muscles along his back contract under his skin, watched his body’s natural grace (or, in some cases, lack thereof), as he fished out fresh shirts and threw one to Pete.

 

They curled up together under their light, woven blanket, bodies wrapped around each other for comfort rather than warmth, sharing gentle touches and light kisses until they both drifted to sleep.

  
  
  
  
  


Pete could tell days before a word was spoken about it. It was the tension in Patrekr’s brow, the worry in his eyes, the coldness in his demeanour. This was the man Pete had feared four summers ago, the one that had stolen him from his home and now he was going to steal someone else’s. Pete knew, long before Patrekr told him. In the past, he would have been angry on behalf of the people facing the same, or, in fact, a worse fate than himself. It had ended well for him. Pete was happy. He’d found his way into the heart of the north, he’d learned to love Patrekr and by the Gods, he did, but nothing would allow him to forget the fear he’d felt those first weeks and nothing would let him forget the guilt and pain of his first nights with the norseman. He still held that against him, on the days where they fought, it was all it took to let Patrekr lose, the reminder of what he’d done to him. 

 

Pete had learned to love his fate, but not everybody would be so lucky. 

 

Now, he couldn’t think of them. It was selfish, it went against all he had learned, all he had been taught, but he didn’t care about the men over in Britain when the only thing occupying his mind was Patrekr. He didn’t believe in prayer, not anymore. He prayed every night for him to come home. 

 

All Pete begged for now was for him to stay, his hands gripping a bearded face, its blue eyes not meeting his properly, like they were almost ashamed, like they couldn’t face him. Pete had known it was coming, he’d known. That didn’t make it any less painful. 

 

There’d been an argument, there always was, every year, not the same but similar, too similar. Pete never remembered just what he’d said after, just that he was hurting and he had hurt Patrekr in return. 

 

He sat on the black beach, the sand cold beneath him, Asha said it was a sign of a harsh and unforgiving winter. Pete hated her for that. Maybe if she hadn’t touched the sand, Patrekr wouldn’t be leaving in the morning. 

 

The lights were incredible. He’d seen them back at the monastery sometimes, fleeting bursts of colour streaking the sky for little more than a second, but up here they were magnificent, kaleidoscopic spectrals, dancing before him sometimes for minutes. They almost made the cold worthwhile. 

 

Pete’s fingers stroked over the sand, it was soft to the touch, so gentle, how many people had it led to its doom because it couldn’t retain enough heat? Three men last year. Eight the year before, that had been a bad one, two the year before that and how long until it was PAtrekr that got dragged into the ice cold claws of the ocean?

 

“You’re thinking too much, my dear.” With a sigh, Pete leaned into Patrekr once he’d sat down next to him. 

 

“Aren’t you cold?” He asked when he saw he still wasn’t wearing trousers. Patrekr just shrugged and didn’t utter a word about it. There were so many things Pete wanted to say,  _ stay with me, don’t go, we can get through winter fine, don’t take the risk again, please, do this for me.  _ He knew they’d fall on deaf ears. 

 

“Take me with you?” He wasn’t sure what he expected. A tut, a sigh, an argument. Patrekr’s low chuckle shook his chest and Pete felt it against his ear, relished in the sound and feel of it. A hand began stroking down his back.

 

“I wish I could, Pete. I really do.” There was no need for explanation. Long boats needed strong people to sail it, they didn’t have the capacity for somebody like Pete who would do nothing but waste their rations and get in the way. He’d done it once before, all that time ago. Patrekr had reassured him that he would have absolutely been prepared to throw him overboard had push come to shove and somehow Pete didn’t doubt it for a second.

 

A flash of green-blue illuminated the heavens and Pete understood why they worshipped their nature Gods. It made sense up here in these cold, harsh lands where the world was so beautiful but so vicious. He tilted his head for a better angle and kissed Patrekr gently, tenderly, he never wanted to break it. 

 

“I’m sorry I… this always ends in an argument…” he muttered, lips close to Patrekr’s temple. 

 

“I understand”, he replied, pulling Pete closer and reconnecting their lips. 

 

“I love you, you know?” Pete couldn’t help but let a small smile twist his lips. “I really do, I love you so much and I hate leaving you, I hate putting you through this every time and I shouldn’t, it’s not f-” He was silenced by Pete’s finger pressing against his mouth. He shook his head lightly, to let him know it was alright. Well, it wasn’t… by God, it wasn’t and Pete would commit murder if it meant keeping Patrekr safe by his side but… but life just wasn’t like that.

 

“I’ll always come back to you,” Patrekr continued, “you know that, right?” He nodded, an understanding smile on his face that did its best to hide the ache. “I’ll always come back to you, I promise.”

 

As the blue, green and yellow dances across the skies and the autumn chill picked up in a breeze, making Pete shiver beneath his clothes, he huddled further into Patrekr, drinking in his warmth,his feeling, his scent, any sensation he could bottle and store for the long nights ahead. 

 

“I know.”

  
  
  
  
  


It was three weeks before Patrekr returned to him, carried on the waves he knew so well. Pete spent the time looking out for the children, trying not to feel lonely and sorry for himself. The parents were grateful for it, he was a good teacher, if he said so himself, knew his greek and latin, could introduce them to things their elders had never so much as heard of. He made his own quills and ink and drew them illustrations on small wooden tablets, they kept them and stored them beneath their pillows as good luck charms or used them to decorate their homes and it made Pete feel good, like he had a purpose. 

 

He was helping with the harvest when the boats arrived. Farming wasn’t the same here as it had been in Britain, small vegetable patches were scattered around the enclave, no big, sprawling fields like farmers had them over the sea. He helped digging out, uprooting, picking, anything that needed doing, Pete would do. It was a community, after all. He couldn't hunt, he couldn’t fight, so he saw to keeping alive his friends and their harvest rather than killing his enemies. 

 

He knew something was wrong the minute the boats appeared on the horizon. The split second of excitement and joy caused his stomach to flip only for it to plummet when he saw the man standing at the head, navigating. Patrekr always navigated, it was his biggest strength, he knew the seas like nobody else. 

 

He was aware of the worried glances thrown in his direction, aware of the mumblings that got caught in the wind and scattered around him the way it would with autumn leaves back in Scotland. All he could do was stand, frozen still, waiting as seconds turned into minutes turned into hours turned into days until the hollow wood scraped against the black sand. There was no point in feeding himself lies, no point in trying to tame his racing heart and the pressure at the back of his throat because he knew, he  _ knew _ . 

 

They wordlessly lifted him off the boat, wrapped in cloth bearing a sigil Pete didn’t recognize or care about. His legs gave out beneath him and he fell to the ground gracelessly, like a toddler barely able to walk. Patrekr looked so still, so calm, so peaceful, the opposite of the raging sea that was tearing at the boats on the beach. It hadn’t claimed his life, they told him, it had been Kingsmen, hiding in the undergrowth, waiting to attack, they cut down fifteen men, Patrekr had died protecting those desperate to get back on the boats. 

 

“You fucking idiot”, Pete choked out through clenched teeth as he curled his fist into Patrekr’s hair, “couldn’t you just be fucking selfish once in your life?” It hit him when there was n response. Patrekr would have fought back. Patrekr always fought back. Now, he was still with not even a rise and fall of his chest Pete had come to know so well. He buried his face in his lover’s clothes when the tears came, bent over his body like he could somehow bring it back to life, like he could somehow make him stay this time.

 

“You’d promised you’d come back”, Pete muttered, “you promised me…” His face was wet and sore, his eyes painful, burning in their sockets. Burning the way they were going to burn him, out on the sea where he belonged, where he’d always belonged. 

 

Patrekr was fire born of ice and he wasn’t Pete’s to keep. 

 

He scattered butterfly kisses over his pale skin, placed one on each eyelid, one on his lips, cold. So cold. 

 

“I’ll find you”, Pete muttered against them, voice a hush. He’d died in battle, an honorable death. Pete didn’t believe in a God but Patrekr did. And Valhalla would welcome him. If Pete had to battle every God the pantheons of the world had to throw at him, he would do it. He would do it a million times.

 

“I promise you, I’ll find you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my tumblr is scmi-sweet in case anybody wants to get in touch :)


	3. Árbakkinn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> waaaay two updates in two days i really am getting my life back on track! It's been a hot minute but I hope you enjoy this. Back to Peter and Patrekr! Sort of.

When he woke up, he was disorientated to say the least. He blinked rapidly, trying to adjust to the harsh light bleeding into his vision until the wooden panels above him came into focus. His eyes darted from left to right and back again, taking in the small space he’d woken up in, large windows in front of and behind him, the sounds and smells, a loud jostling and fresh morning dew, a chill tickling his skin. 

 

Ah, the jostling. Patryk groaned as he sat up, stretching and cracking his joints one by one to try and dispel the ache from his bones. A glance out of the window confirmed his whereabouts. Admittedly, this hadn’t quite been what he’d pictured, more grandiose and pomposity, but what awaited him at the end of the road was just a castle like any other, granite walls, rounded towers, but even those weren’t exactly uncommon these days. Patryk couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at the grey structure.

 

“Unimpressed?” He shrugged. He wasn’t sure  _ what _ he had been expecting, but the way his father talked about this man, like he was some sort of evil, omnipotent being, it hadn’t been… this. 

 

“Just not what I’d pictured” he mumbled, slumping back against the carriage wall. Not even the landscape was particularly spectacular, not near the sea like Patryk’s home, not near the mountains like Karel, his great-uncle or something like that, he wasn’t really sure on the exact relation, only that his father liked to boast about it. Piotr’s castle was in a forest. Just a simple forest surrounded by a few fields, the odd hill barely tall enough to be called such. He mustered his father, sat opposite him, dressed in his best, most regal-looking robes, red, fur-trimmed, totally unnecessary, Patryk decided. He was uncomfortable in his own gown, the one he’d pretty much been forced into, rough fabrics traded for fine velvet he’d probably have ruined by the end of the day. Oh, his dear sister, she looked perfect, of course, and of course that was all that was needed. 

 

“You will make a good impression”, the King - the rightful one, according to the man himself, eager to regain power via strategic marriage - commanded. Patryk merely shrugged, good impressions weren’t exactly his greatest strength. People usually only needed one look to decide he, in all his short, fat glory, was not worth a second one.

 

“You will! You are going to be King, you are going to have to take up this… this ridiculous feud and you are going to have to make him take you seriously! You can’t spend your whole life at the damned tavern!” Oh, but he could. And he would. And there was nothing his father could do about it because he was his only son and his mother was past giving him any more children, which, in all honesty, Patryk was more than grateful for considering he had nothing but his family’s wealth to support him. 

 

He tried - not his best, but he tried - to come across as somewhat personable when they climbed out of their carriage, the door held open by a footman that wasn’t theirs, dressed in yellow rather than green. Patryk found himself wondering whether their colours wouldn’t suit him better. 

 

Their host would see them in the great hall, as was customary, surrounded by his knights, his guards, maids and servants, possibly a small crowd. At least that was what Patryk had been expecting, not unfamiliar with these unpleasantries. Therefor he was somewhat taken aback when, with a vice-tight grip on his underarm, his father held him back from climbing the steps to the front doors. 

 

“You will  _ not _ run off without a proper greeting, who do you think you are?!” he hissed at him until his spit dampened Patryk’s cheek. He stared back in bewilderment, trying to communicate  _ what the fuck have i done wrong now?! _ with nothing more but his eyes. The question was answered for him before he could even ask.

 

“King Piotr of West-Prussia!” Patryks head snapped around so fast he was certain he’d given himself whiplash, eyes resting on the man gracefully crossing the courtyard, course set on them. His crown was heavy, gold, more impressive than his father’s for sure, he’d hear of Piotr’s wealth. His jaw was chiselled, peppered with the hint of a beard, his brow heavy, his eyes determined and Patryk bit his lip at the way his stomach began flipping somersaults. 

 

Piotr greeted his father wid a broad, toothy grin and a warm hug that made the older king look stiff and unpleasant which, well, was the truth. He then turned to his mother, greeted her with a kiss to her hand, before directing his attention to Zofia. 

 

“My God, you are more beautiful than I had dared to imagine”, he charmed her and Patryk’s gut definitely did not clench with jealousy.  He averted his gaze as Piotr took her hand, gently, in his own, his lips met the back of her palm, eyes still fixed on her. The goblins overhead suddenly seemed like intricate works of art. His sister wasn’t  _ that _ beautiful, in fact, Patryk found her to be rather average-looking, not that his father saw past the fake charm of the other king. 

 

“And this is my son the Prince, Pa-”

 

“Patrekr?!” His voice suddenly sounded breathless, husky, like he’d been hit in the gut with a flail. Patrick’s head whipped around, frowning, taking in the stunned look on Piotr’s face. Stunned? Shocked? Utterly horrified? Who even knew at this point.

 

“Patryk but close enough…” he muttered in response, holding out his hand politely for Piotr to shake it (totally not because he desperately, desperately craved his physical contact or anything like that), but it wasn’t taken, instead he got to stare at Piotr as he stood glued to his spot like he’d lost all command over his limbs. And mouth, apparently, that was making a rather good impression of a fish drowning on land. Patryk would know, he’d pulled enough of them out of the sea to know. 

 

“Uh… are you like… are you alright?” He glanced at his father next to him who seemed just as lost as he was as to what to do. And then, suddenly, Piotr shook his head, snapping out of whatever trance he’d gone in to, leaving everybody rather bewildered.

 

“Sorry,” he still seemed flustered, “I just… you reminded me of somebody… for a second there.” Patrick raised an eyebrow, unsure what to make of that statement. Piotr, finally, took his hand and gave it a firm squeeze. Very firm. Much firmer than need be. Patrick tried not to think too much into it before his heart went racing off behind the next unobtainable man. 

 

“Jakub will… will show you your chambers. Feel free to wander during your stay, any doors that need to be locked are… are locked…” the way he kept his eyes on Patryk the entire time was… not as uncomfortable as it probably should have been. He casually shrugged it off.  _ Don’t think about it _ . 

 

The king smiled sweetly at his soon-to-be betrothed before quickly catching Patryk’s gaze again and turning away, gliding back up the steps he’d descended minutes before. 

 

Patryk was put in his own dormitory, just him, his travel case and a big, big bed. He wasn’t sure where his dear father was, whether he was right next door or at the other end of the castle, but he sure as hell wasn’t here and that was all he needed to feel relief flooding him. They had an hour before dinner, Jakub had told him. An hour was enough. He could get a lot done in an hour. Patryk briskly undid his belt, letting his trousers pool around his ankles as he stroked himself to full hardness. He wasn’t sure whether it was out of boredom or genuine lust, wasn’t sure whether the hot whiskey eyes he couldn’t keep from flashing through his mind were there for lack of any other image or because he was completely and utterly screwed, but as he came undone with a grunt, he couldn’t help but wonder how Piotr’s hand would feel different to his own.

 

His father could never know of these fantasies, of course, his father could never know of the nights he’d spent in the servants’ quarters, the ones that were laughed off as childish foolery because, of course, every nobleman had fucked a maid, every nobleman but Patryk, it would seem, who’d rather thrust his cock down the stable boy’s throat than up Zofia’s handmaid. 

 

He wore his nicest clothes to dinner. They were far from comfortable, too heavy, too… slippery, but he wanted to impress, after all. Sin burnt on the palm of his hand the way Piotr’s eyes burnt into his skull, but he tried his best not to look, not to look,  _ not to look _ …

 

“I will announce the engagement tomorrow”, the king decided. Patryk’s father, evidently, was not best pleased with this. 

 

“You never made a formal proposal! What if I don’t allow it?” Piotr’s smirk nearly murdered Patryk right then and there. 

 

“My dear lord, meaning no disrespect, I know full well you are as keen on my lands as I am on yours. What better way to gain hold on them than to join our houses?” Did he really,  _ really _ glance his way then, or was this all just wishful thinking? 

 

“The lady Zofia is rather wonderful, I could not be happier about this match.” Patryk made sure to stab the piece of meat he’d just sliced particularly hard, pretending it was his wretched sister. His stupid, giggling sister. She was just a  _ child _ , too young for Piotr, for sure, whilst Patryk wasn’t certain of his exact age, he knew he was closer to his own 20 than Zofia’s 16. 

 

“Oh don’t you think he’s wonderful, mama?” Patryk found himself scowling as they headed back to their chambers that night, his insufferable sister going on and on and on about her promised. 

 

“Yes, quite wonderful, dear”, even their mother sounded tired of her. Patryk rolled his eyes and kicked open the door to his chambers, closing it on his father’s complaints about manners. What did it matter? 

 

He lay in bed and sulked. Patryk was a sulker. It was what he knew, it was what he was good at. Fight him. 

 

He dragged himself to the door against his will when a persistent and rather penetrative knock decided to terrorize him in his silent soliloquy. Surely his father coming to tell him off about how he’d cuffed his shirt or his sister coming to tell him how excited she was to have Piotr’s 38 babies. 

 

It was neither.

 

“Compliments from the king!” Patrick frowned at the basket held out to him, filled with fruit and sweets that did tickle his attention. He took it with a smile, mumbling a low “thank you” to the servant before shutting and locking the door in his face. He was nice like that. 

 

Apples, pears, even peaches, candied cherries and cranberries and… He plucked the piece of parchment out from between two very crisp-looking apples. He didn’t recognize the hand but he could hope…

 

_ You came to me in every dream. Western tower shortly after sundown. Come alone. _

 

Patryk was either getting murdered or courted. He’d take his chances.

  
  
  
  
  


The western tower was tall, multiple stories tall, not just one, long staircase as Patryk had imagined when he’d not received any exact details on  _ where _ in the damned thing. For lack of anything else to do, he kept going, every step a little less confident than the last. 

 

He was huffing and puffing by the time he reached the top, his dislike for jousting and hunting and duelling and… well pretty much anything that involved moving more than the necessary steps it took to get to and from the kitchens or the nearest source of alcohol coming back to bit him in the arse like his dear father had always predicted. He couldn’t deny, he had quite the view from up there, acres upon acres of undisturbed forest, its sounds distant over the last chatters of the streets below, lights still burning as late merchants took down their stalls and drunkards toppled their way to their favourite (nearest) tavern. Patrick leaned his elbows on the battlements and took to watching the people flit about in the city below, outside the castle walls, neatly draped over the hill before the stone houses turned into wooden huts and the narrow streets faded out into open fields beyond the grey walls. A drunken man was kicked out of his house by his shouting wife, he curled up next to his dog like it was the most normal thing in the world and Patrick found himself chuckling at how similar men were.

 

“I’m glad you like my city.” He spun around abruptly at the sound of a melodic voice he recognised too well already. 

 

“it’s alright, I suppose”, he commented with a shrug, trying to be calm, relaxed and casual. You know, completely unfazed by the handsome man who’d just appeared by his side in the middle of the night after luring him up to a silent corner of his castle. On his own. He specifically instructed that. Piotr smirked.

 

“It’s alright to admit you’re impressed, you know, you don’t have to appease your father when he’s not around, although… you don’t strike me as the type who’d be too concerned about that, anyway.” Patryk bit his lip to stop himself from making some dumb comment that would land him in a load of trouble and possibly the stables. He wished the moon would shine a little brighter so he could see more of the king than a silhouette and a glint in his eyes. As though he could read his thoughts, he stepped closer, leaning against the wall next to Patryk, so his face was bathed in the soft orange glow that reached them from the streets below. 

 

“I love it up here”, he commented, not taking his eyes off the horizon, “the black of the sky that’s not really black, look, it’s blue, it never stops being blue, well… except at dawn and dusk, I suppose, but the blue is always there. The sky is royal and jewelled with… with tiny spots of fire that decorate it like a million diamonds…” Patryk wasn’t sure if the man’s description of stars was romantic or obnoxious, but he nodded along as if he’d ever thought more of them than ‘hm, pretty’. 

 

“How would you feel if the moon knew your name?” He raised an eyebrow at Piotr’s question.

 

“I’m sorry if it what now?” The king looked at him in sorrowful confusion.

 

“Surely, the moon is a woman, no? If she knew your name, how would it make you feel?” Patryk tore his gaze away from him and looked up to her, glowing like the sun… like a midnight sun. Something tickled at the back of his mind, an itch he couldn’t scratch, something that made him look back at Piotr. He was watching him now. 

 

“Why are you so sad?” Patryk didn’t know where the question had come from, he hadn’t even know he considered Piotrs ad himself before he spoke it. But he was, the wrinkles around his eyes that had looked like laughter this morning suddenly a mark of tiredness, like he’d been awake for a very, very long time. 

 

“You know what, Patryk? I’m not even sure myself.” He smiled, but even the smile was sad. And then, all of a sudden, as though a switch had been flipped, he stood up, the eager twinkle he’d boasted when they’d first met back in his eye. 

 

“You look like a fellow who prefers the gold of the streets to the blue of the sky, should we take a walk?” 

 

“Uuh…” Patryk stammered around in search for an appropriate reply to the sudden question. “Can you just do that? As the king, I mean, can you just… walk around?” Piotr shrugged.

 

“Who’s going to stop me?” And because he was stupid and because he wanted to get his dick wet, Patryk replied:

 

“Uh, yeah, sure!”

  
  


***

 

“Tavern! You like mead, right?” 

 

“uuh... “  _ uuuuh _ . Patrick had been doing a lot of that. Brainless, stupid  _ uuuuuh _ . He found himself somewhat overrun by Piotr and the way he spoke, all the time, non-stop, like the words were a part of him and they were  _ beautiful _ , he used such beautiful, beautiful words. They made Patryk feel like a bit of an idiot and Patryk was far from stupid himself. He had a way with numbers, his tutor always told him so, and was quite skilled in all musical matters. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t find words to match Piotr’s. 

 

“I’ll take that as a yes, come on!” And so Patryk found himself - much to his father’s dismay if he were to know - in a tavern, once again staring at a handsome man. Piotr had changed into common clothes before they had left, his shirt loosely laced so he could spot a hint of hair on his chest, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing dark, muscly underarms that made Patryk weak at the knees and his arse looked  _ spectacular _ in those trousers, highlighted by the knee-high, leather boots. Patryk felt like a sore thumb in his green velvet jacket. He was too cold without it and besides, it hid his… somewhat girthy midsection. The way Piotr’s muscles tensed as he lifted the tankard to his lips, the way they dampened at the touch of it, the way he licked them as he set it down again, well… let’s just say Patryk was careful to keep his crotch out of sight. 

 

“So, come on, what do you think of my city? Be honest.” Piotr had a cube of cheese on his knife and he took it between his teeth, tugging it off and popping it into his mouth, his head angled upwards to make the stark outline of his jaw just a little more obvious. Patryk hadn’t eaten a single bit so far.

 

“Uuh, uh, it’s… lovely, it’s nice I’m… yes, very nice.” Piotr smirked and pushed the platter of cheese towards him. It would be rude not to eat any, wouldn’t it?

 

“So you feel comfortable leaving your sister here?” He may have involuntarily kicked the table at the reminder.

 

“Yes…”  _ no,  _ “very much so…” he growled between clenched teeth. Unconvincingly. Piotr began toying with the knife, pressing the point to the pad of his finger, flipping it, twisting it between his hands, stroking the blade absent-mindedly, his amber eyes fixed on Patryk the entire time. 

 

“Jealous?” He speared another square of cheese, going through the motions of dragging it off the blade with his teeth. Patrick shifted in discomfort as he watched Pete’s throat swallow it, seconds away from letting go of a pathetic whine. He could feel himself blushing.

 

“N-no, why would i be, I mean, I- I…” Piotr smirked at him again - had it ever left his lips? -  and stood, walking towards the barmaid, handing her the coins they’d spent. Patryk began rummaging through his own purse, intent on paying him back, of course, he actually wished Piotr had announced his intention before he just got up and paid for both of them, but he’d have to hand it to him this way…

 

“No need”, Patryk opened his mouth to protest, but Piotr interrupted him, “you can pay me back in other ways.” Okay, that wasn’t even subtle, that was… or was Patryk completely misreading the situation? His trousers were uncomfortably tight and he untucked his shirt so it could hang over his crotch as he followed the king out onto the street. 

 

“I don’t like being in debt, you should real-” he was cut off as all wind was knocked out of him by the impact of his back against the wood of the tavern wall. Piotr was close, really close, it took Patryk a moment to compute the fact that his hands were grasping his waist, his lips were tracing his throat. Ah, there was that whine he’d been holding back.

 

“What do you say,” Piotr breathed against his skin, hot and sticky, “let’s have some fun? Let me lie with a man just one more time before I propose to your sister tomorrow?” Patryk’s gut clenched and he wasn’t sure if it was disgust or the thrill of it. It was always there when he fucked men, the knowledge that he shouldn’t be doing this, if he got caught… oh, if he got caught… 

 

This, this would be the greatest scandal Poland would have witnessed in years. 

 

“Y-yeah, yeah…” Part of him wished Piotr would just take him then and there, that part of him died a small death when, instead, he pulled away, leaving Patryk achingly hard. All he could do was follow in silence as Piotr resumed his talking as though nothing had happened. 

 

***

 

Patryk climbed out of the carriage, his boots scuffed on the familiar cobblestone and he drank in the air around him. It smelled sweet and flowery, woody rather than the sharp, salted sting that met his nostrils at home. The sickening excitement he’d been feeling in his belly for the past few hours spread through his whole body at the sight of the yellow crests scattered over the courtyard. His father huffed and puffed as he climbed out behind him, shortly followed by the sound of his mother’s delicate footsteps. His sister was coming in another carriage, after they were to be received, so Piotr wouldn’t see his bride before they were married. 

 

That was another thing, the excitement kept flipping over to the side of anxiety, almost panic, whenever he was reminded why, exactly, they were here in the first place, why, after three months of secret love letters sent via carrier pigeon rather than a messenger who might read it knowing who it was from, who might grow suspicious as to why they were being sent in the first place, he could finally see, touch, hold Piotr again. They shook hands, nicely, formally, like they were supposed to, Patryk kept his expression politely blank. 

 

Later, whilst everybody else was filling their guts with fine pork and good wine, freshly imported from France, Piotr was filling his insides with Patryk, pushed up against the back wall of the armory, his trousers on the floor by their feet as Patryk’s stayed caught around his knees, body heat and sweat accompanied by quiet, low animalistic growls. 

 

After, when Patryk had come deep inside Piotr, when Piotr had painted the inside of Patryk’s throat white, they sat huddled in the corner, trying to catch their breath. He leaned his head against Piotr’s shoulder, burying himself in the crook of his neck as he felt a hand stroking lazy patterns over his back. The silence was only filled with the sound of heavy breathing until Patryk turned his head enough to free his mouth and muttered:

 

“I don’t want you to marry Zofia…” He was met with a heavy sigh and he could feel Piotr’s sadness. Ever-present, even when he wasn’t. 

 

“No, I don’t want to marry her either.”

 

***

 

They were a beautiful couple, Patryk couldn’t deny that. Piotr in his regal attire, the strong gold perfect against his tan skin, Zofia in her green dress, a daring move politically, but Piotr had never thought much of his father’s stupid fights. For all he cared, he’d confessed one night when they’d lain entwined in his bed, he could have the damn kingdom, he’d give it to him, gladly, if only he had the guts to demand it from him with more than cowardly subtleties. 

 

She kept touching him. All through the feast, her hands all over him, her lips constantly against his neck, his hands, his face. It seemed Patryk was the only one not foolish enough to take his polite laughter as genuine enjoyment. 

 

He drank enough to knock out a horse that night.

 

Then the time began approaching, that moment Patryk feared the most. He watched Zofia become less and less steady with each beaker of wine she drank, Piotr still in full control of himself as he politely, kindly held her up, wiped her food off her chin, as though she wasn’t embarrassing herself. Not that Patryk himself was any more sober, just nobody was expecting him to be, either. He was already the fat, lazy prince, and this was his sister’s wedding, people would forgive him for being drunk. 

 

Their mother whispered encouraging words to her, their father kissed her forehead before giving Piotr a look that should probably be a warning but was all but laughable. Patryk snorted at it. Zofia even came over to him. He didn’t even attempt to look happy about the whole situation.

 

“You won’t get too bored without me, will you?” Patryk shrugged. If that was what she thought he was morning, then all the better for it. 

 

“Try to be happy for us at least, please. You’ve… been behaving so oddly today. Things are changing, I know, but-”

 

“Oh, go sit on your husband’s cock and leave me alone.” That was the wine talking, it was definitely the wine talking. Against all odds, Patryk loved his sister. His sister who shyed back, away from him, upset, clearly upset and at a loss for words. His father looked enraged. His mother looked horrified. Piotr shook his head at him and he felt shame bloom in his belly. He got up, briefly muttered “excuse me” before slipping past them, out of the hall and away from everybody.

 

***

 

He was grateful his chambers were not next to the king’s. He wasn’t sure he had enough energy in him to cry more than he already had, the shame, humiliation and heartbreak too much to bear at once. It tore through him like a thousand swords and Patryk had never been a keen fighter. 

 

He sat up and hurriedly wiped his eyes as somebody knocked on his door, preparing an apology to his mother or for an argument with his father. It was neither. The sadness only got worse at the sight of Piotr’s face.

 

“Hey, hey, shh, it’s alright, don’t cry, my prince… don’t cry.” He was with him in seconds, holding him tight, soothing him, stroking over his hair and kissing his head. He already smelled of her, the scent of Zofia’s perfume making Patryk’s stomach churn.

 

“Did you do it?” he sniffed into Piotr’s cotton nightshirt. 

 

“You know I had to…” Another sob broke out of him and he curled his fist into Piotr’s clothes, pulling him closer, closer, closer until there was no physical distance between any inch of their bodies. 

 

It hurt so much.

 

“I love you”, he choked out from behind clenched teeth, his throat red and raw. 

 

“I love you, too.” He wasn’t sure if that made it better or worse, he kissed him to find out, sought out the warmth of Piotr’s tongue, the feeling of his lips, desperate to claim him as  _ his _ , nobody else’s. Just his. 

 

“Let’s get out of here,” he begged, “lets leave, give this… kingdom to my father, just leave all this shit behind and run away with me.” Piotr nodded, their foreheads touching as they troked over each other’s bodies, Patryk’s hand tracing Piotr’s arm, Piotr’s hand resting on Patryk’s cheek. 

 

“Yeah,” he sniffed and Patryk was surprised to hear his voice was laced with heavy tears, too, “yeah, that sounds good. Where d’you wanna go?” Patryk shrugged, eager to uphold the fantasy for as long as they could.

 

“Little farm somewhere. Prussia, maybe? A few cows would be nice.” Piotr nodded.

 

“By a forest.”

 

“And we could grow all our own food.”

 

“Sell the left-overs in the nearest town.”

 

“Where nobody would know us.”

 

“No, nobody.”

 

“I want a little well.”

 

“We can have a little well. Maybe we could find a lake somewhere, that would be nice, I’d like that.”

 

“A few kids.” Piotr chuckled at that.

 

“I’ll give you all the children you want, my love.” That made Patryk laugh, he wrapped his arms around Piotr and pulled him close and they just stayed like that. Sharing each other’s space for as long as they could. And then they kissed. Patryk wasn’t sure who started it, only that they were wrapped in a mutual embrace, Piotr’s lips against his soft and loving at first, only to become hot and desperate as small moans started escaping both of them and Patryk felt himself being pushed back against his pillows, Piotr leaning over him, kissing, kissing, kissing until his cock began to stir. 

 

“Piotr…” he gasped as the king trailed his tongue down his throat.

 

“What is it, my prince?”

 

“Don’t stop.” He caught Piotr’s smirk before he turned back to kissing along Patryk’s skin, until he reached the collar of his shirt. His fingers began toying with the hem of it, pulling it up, up, up, until Patryk lifted his arms and it was pulled off. He pulled Piotr back into a kiss as they sunk back into the pillows together, his hands roaming Patryk’s bare skin, his cock hard as he began grinding against his thigh, making Patryk moan out. 

 

His breath hitched as Piotr wrapped his hand around his cock, began slowly stroking it, kissing, kissing, kissing.

 

They pulled apart abruptly as a loud clang echoed around the room, tearing through Patryk’s brain. Terror ignited within him when he saw his sister standing there, mouth hanging open in horror at the sight of her newlywed husband stroking her brother’s cock, wrapped in a passionate embrace, their wet lips a testament to their sins. 

 

Piotr was the first to find his voice again and he stood up, his nightshirt dropping back down over his thighs. He took a few steps towards her, trying to remain calm, though Patryk could see the tension in his shoulders.

 

“Zofia, dearest, I can-” She wasn’t looking at Piotr. Instead, her eyes were fixed on Patryk, horror, shock, disgust, disappointment contorting her features. 

 

“So this, this is why you were so vile? You’re a sodomite? With… with  _ him _ ! And… oh God, I… I just…” She pushed Piotr away violently, tears springing to her eyes and Patryk was stuck between anger, shame and guilt. 

  
“Don’t  _ touch _ me!” she hissed, “don’t… don’t even  _ speak  _ to me! I’m…” They never found out what She was. Zofia turned and stormed out, leaving them in horrific silence. Piotr turned, slowly, way too slowly, and the look they shared was one of pure, unfiltered terror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ehehehe I hope you enjoyed that. Left you dangling off a little cliff there. please leave comments and kudos, that would b rad, my tumblr is scmi_sweet.


	4. Riverside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhm hi so... this exists still.
> 
> I wrote this in one go and proofread at 1am so don't crucify me for any mistakes pls and thanks you. No idea where I got 5k from in like... four hours but we're going with it.
> 
> Anyway uhm. 
> 
> How've you all... been?
> 
> It's been a while. Pls tell me what to have for lunch, it needs to be quick and not too heavy, I'm going out for Pizza tonight.
> 
> Thankzzzz guys I appreciate all advice on this. 
> 
> Prepare tissues I totally cried writing this xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

His hair burned like fire in the morning sunlight, catching its rays and reflecting them in a million shades of copper, the blonde turning a rich orange. He reached out a hand and stroked it off his brow, catching his cool skin underneath his fingertips. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as the ache tugging at his heart was pushed aside. Just for a day he could pretend. Just for now, in these moments at dawn where nothing in the world could disturb them other than the cockerell screaming the break of day in the barn, summoning Piotr to feed him. He pressed a light kiss to Patryk’s hair before swinging himself out of bed, the air cool on his naked skin, the sweat from the night before still clinging to it, dry and heavy. He’d need to wash. They both would.

 

Mornings were always beautiful. Granted, he’d be somewhat glad to remain in bed until noon, but seeing the rising sun, the red sunlight, the dew on the blades of grass, feeling the chill in the air even in summer, it let him feel at peace. Piotr needed that now more than ever, his moments of luck. They kept him going. 

 

The animals gave him purpose, made him feel needed. WIthout him, they would starve, they would be in danger, would fall ill. His dog rarely left his side, slept at the foot of his bed, clung to his heel throughout most of the day, as protective of Pete as he was of the sheep he was meant to guard. 

 

Ten Chickens. Three sheep. A plough horse. One dog. A wild cat that had taken up residence in Piotr’s barn. That was his family now. 

 

He collected the eggs, four of them, and opened the hatch to the great outdoors before heading back to his little hut, Chłopiec on his heel as always, ears picking up any and all sounds of potential predators. Piotr wasn’t sure what he’d do if there were any, really. In all honesty, he just liked the dog’s company.

 

He smiled when he saw Patryk had already lit the fire, Piotr’s pot hanging over it, already filled with the water they’d need for the porridge. He’d boil the eggs after, they’d have them for lunch. 

 

He walked over to him, tugging at his shirt until he could kiss him gently before ruffling his hair. 

 

“Good morning, my king!”

 

Patryk’s scowl make him chuckle.

 

“Hardly  _ your _ king now, am I?” Piotr shrugged. It didn’t matter to him who ruled and who didn’t. It didn’t matter to him that he’d been banished from his own city, his own home, didn’t matter to him that Patryk was so far away, in another kingdom, at his side only when he was permitted to enter Pomerania, when visiting the family of the poor princess who’d been condemned to be the wife of an unwilling husband. Only in name, he said. So far, there were no heirs to prove otherwise. The same could not be said for Piotr. If there was any regret, any, just one, it was that. Not for himself. For Zofia. He tried not to dwell on those thoughts. The past could not be changed, after all.

 

“You’ll always be king of my heart.” he declared, his grin plastered on his face as Patryk’s contorted into disgust. 

 

“That might just be the worst thing you’ve said. Ever.” 

 

“Oh, but it’s true, my love!” Piotr threw his arms wide, dramatically gesticulating to a non-existing audience “It is you I have chosen, to be mine until the end of our days, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, ‘til death us do part!” He was met with nothing but a raised eyebrow and a low “mmmh…”

 

It hurt. Deep down, it hurt to know they could never be that. 

 

“You fucking reek…” Piotr tightened his grip around Patryk’s waist, squeezing him hard and making him yelp as he attempted to lift him up. 

 

“You know who made me reek, don’t you? You remember that, right?” He nipped at Patryk’s ear teasingly, but was met with nothing more than a slap to the arm. 

 

“I don’t stink!” No. He didn’t. Patryk always smelled good. An odd smell, not like the perfume he’d wear during his reign, his was natural, musky, a little sweet. Patryk. Piotr had to admit, if he smelled of horse shit, he’d love the scent of the stables. 

 

“Well how about we take a walk after breakfast? Down to the stream so I can wash?” Patryk merely shrugged but the smile on his lips suggested he was more than happy with Piotr’s suggestion. 

 

He missed porridge made with milk, he had to admit. Its richness and thickness simply couldn’t be matched by water, but those days were over. He couldn’t mourn them. He couldn’t think of anything but the here and now.

 

It was odd. He’d never much believed in fate until he’d seen Patryk. He’d been familiar even then, as though from a dream, but a long one. A vivid one. He remembered him so clearly, a face he’d never known before. Or had he? 

 

Sometimes Piotr would dream of black sands and bright lights, so intensely he couldn’t decipher what was real and what was not. Even now. 

  
  
  
  
  


The sun had fully risen by the time they left the house, the leaves of the trees offering a shield from the blinding light. It wasn’t yet hot enough to burn, but Patryk had always preferred the cold and Piotr enjoyed the shade. 

 

The stream, as they called it, was more of a small river, really. Rippling and meandering through the forest, it came up to Pete’s breast when his feet touched the bottom of the deepest point. He stripped, laying his clothes out beside Patryk, taking up residence on a flat stone by the riverbed, his shoes beside him as the water lapped at his toes. He rolled his eyes dramatically, crossing his arms and pointedly turning away and Piotr jokingly wiggled his hips, making his manhood wiggle with them. Patryk always called him a child. Maybe he was one. 

 

The water was cold against his bare skin but it offered him nothing shy of relief as he felt it cleanse him of last night’s sins. He rubbed it up his arms and over his shoulders, massaged it into his own skin until he felt the dirt come off him, out of him, even, and dived his head under the gentle pull of the water, running his fingers through his close-shaven hair, dragging out whatever filth was caught in it. 

 

When he re-emerged, Patryk was still sitting on his rock, absent-mindedly stroking Chłopiec as he watched something in the trees. 

 

Piotr, being the child he was, made sure to splash him with water, trying to get him in, involve him in some infantile game. 

 

Patryk shot him an annoyed look.

 

“What is it, my love? What’s the matter?” He didn’t react, eyes still in the trees. 

 

“Patryk?” Reluctantly, Piotr waded out of the cool stream, the slimy rocks below his feet not offering him much stability as he half-walked, half-swam until he could reach out for him.

 

“Patryk, come on, what’s the matter? Tell me.” Patryk tended to bottle and explode. They’d discussed it a lot, his awful habit of letting his emotions blow up in Piotr’s face from time to time, making him spiral into frustration and upset, thinking it was his fault, he’d done something wrong, he hated him…

 

He’d been getting better at not letting his feelings get the better of him, though. And so, with a sigh, Patryk replied honestly.

 

“I don’t want to leave you. Ever again.” 

 

No. Piotr didn’t want that, either. But what could they do? Patryk wasn’t bound by duty or honour, he didn’t care about those, why should he when duty and honour had never given him a reason to? 

 

He couldn’t stay, though. Not because he cared but because others did. His own father, never having forgiven him, undoubtedly not afraid of going to extreme measures to keep Patryk under lock and key if he found out of this, his wife, expecting him to come back to her, expecting him to offer her a life of luxury and a son he was more than reluctant to give and her father, Piotr’s real king, if he liked it or not, and lord knew what he would do if he found out. 

 

Part of him thought they just weren’t meant to be. He should let go.

 

But he didn’t want that.

 

Piotr leaned in, pressing a kiss to Patryk’s warm lips, his hands resting on his lap, intertwining their fingers. He looked him right in the eye, those beautiful, ocean blue eyes rimmed with gold, as he pulled back, not letting go of his hands. 

 

A mischievous grin spread across his face.

 

“What?” There was worry in his eyes now, “Piotr, wha-  _ fuck you _ !” he yelped as he was dragged forward, into the cold embrace of the river, still fully clothed.

 

“ _ Fuck _ !” he exclaimed once he’d found his footing, shouting into Piotr’s laughing face. “Fuck you, man I’m… fuck, I’m all wet now!”

 

Piotr, ever the cheeky bastard, wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. 

 

“Are you a maiden now?” He wasn’t sure what reaction he was expecting, but he had to admit, the way Patryk threw his entire body weight into him to topple him over, into the pull of the water, was more than fair. 

 

He re-emerged a little further down, having regained his footing, gasping for the air that had been suddenly stolen from him.

 

“Oh, you  _ bastard _ !” Patryk giggled like a little boy. “I’ll fucking show you, just you wait, you…” Patryk yelped when Piotr suddenly surged forward, scrambling towards the riverbank, but held back by the weight of his drenched clothes slowing him down. 

 

It wasn’t hard for Piotr to tackle him back underneath the surface. When he reemerged, his sopping hair was hanging in his face and he looked… pissed. 

 

“You utter  _ dick _ !” Piotr couldn’t seem to wipe the grin off his face.

 

“Why don’t you just take your clothes off it they’re bothering you?” He suggested casually. Patryk scowled.

 

“Oh yea, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Well, fat luck, kid. These are staying  _ on _ .” Piotr pouted, but couldn’t seem to sway him. 

 

“Aww, you’re no fun.”

 

“Maybe so.”

 

“Can I have a kiss?”

 

“No.”

 

“Please?”

 

“No.” He swam closer, until he was close to him, could stroke through his wet hair, let his fingers stroke the skin below his shirt, pull him close. Hold him. Patryk softened in his grasp, the annoyance in his expression making way for that beautiful, loving look that made Piotr giddy and dumb. He wished himself into this moment forever, for all his tomorrows to be like this. His heart hurt at the mere thought of the lonely sunset the evening would bring.

 

“Please?”

  
  
  


*

 

Patryk was many things. Short, for one. Almost comically so. Especially beside other men. And his wife. His wife who was taller than him. That didn’t at all undermine his authority. Stubborn, another thing he was. As a mule, his mother always said. Fat, not to forget fat. He couldn’t help it, it was just how he was built, it was too much effort to be lean, he’d decided that early on. Short, stubborn, fat. To throw in some more adjectives, lazy, short-tempered, easily bored and judgemental. A lot of things that worked in his favour, obviously. 

 

If there was one thing Patryk was not, it was a diplomat. He didn't enjoy it, didn’t like the political talk, there were too many lies, too much intrigue and it wasn’t that he was too naive or stupid to figure it out, it was that it all seemed like an awful waste of time. So, whenever he was sent abroad to discuss this or that with some guy or another, he’d have to be dragged into the carriage kicking and screaming. 

 

But this one, this, this was important.

 

So important his father had come along, not trusting his useless son to do it right.

 

The duke of Silesia, apparently, was the title of the important guy they were talking to. Patryk thought it might be practical to know if they were discussing a trade deal or a peace treaty, but he suspected he was mainly there to make a good impression. Which, admittedly, he was trying. Not his best, as usual, but trying. 

 

He entertained himself by picking patterns into the wooden table with his knife as his father discussed the important matters. He was pretty sure he tried to trade him off at one point, conveniently forgetting he’d already married off his only son and his daughter was somewhat undesirable. He felt sorry for her. It wasn’t her fault she’d been involved in this mess. She’d just been sold off like a mule. To an extent, they both had. At least Patryk had the comfort of an inheritance. 

 

Neither Zofia nor her baby had that reassurance, even if he had promised he wouldn’t leave them by the wayside. His sister and his lover’s child. How could he ever abandon them? Patryk often thought whether - if God had been kind enough to make him a woman - their baby would look like Ksawery. Dark hair. Blue eyes. He liked to think so.

 

Anna was waiting for him when he got to his chambers. She always was. He knew he had a duty to do and he knew he owed it to her but… he couldn’t. Maybe, one day. Maybe he’d be more of a man.

 

For now, he merely kissed her cheek and slipped under the covers, chasing sleep.

  
  


*

 

Patryk liked roaming the streets of foreign cities. He liked watching the people, the animals, how they went about their day differently from the ones he was familiar with, how their houses were different, their mannerisms were different, their food was different, their language was different. It entertained him, catered to his short attention span, being able to watch the ever shifting dynamics of an unknown town. 

 

He couldn’t. Not this time.

 

The streets weren’t safe, they’d been told, an outbreak of sickness, especially in the lower town, with the rats and the poor. They’d not been told how many lives it had claimed, only that it was a considerable number, but nothing to worry about according to the duke, it was contained to the gutter as long as they stayed away from it. Patryk, despite being plagued with boredom, didn’t much fancy sore pustules growing in his face, the way the serving girl he’d cornered and questioned had described them. Apparently, people coughed out their lungs, their skin turned black, they stank, turned into rats themselves. 

 

He doubted she’d seen it herself, but he lapped up the stories regardless. Maybe if he spun a story out of it, he could seem interesting, like he’d survived a plague when it was merely one of those alements found in the back alleys of every town. A smelly one, granted, but nothing to worry about. He’d tell Pete a nice tale of the horrors encountered in Silesia. He’d roll his eyes and refuse to believe him, but deep down, he always did. Pete was a man of adventure, always had been, and he drank up a good story like it was a drug. 

 

Yes, he’d have to come up with something, something exciting. For when they met again. It had been too long already, nearing four months if he wasn’t mistaken. Maybe he could sew a seed into Anna, one that would make her suggest stopping at her home on the way back. They never seemed to question when he disappeared for a few days. After all, didn’t kings and princes always find the best brothels in foreign cities? So what if his was further out in the country than typical? 

  
  


*

 

“Do you hate me?” Patryk was half asleep when the question cut through the dark, dragging him back into the land of the waking. He could see moonlight reflected in big, shining eyes, a question in them he should probably have answered years ago. People were starting to ask questions, he knew that. But Anna wouldn’t be the first woman incapable of bearing children. He’d blame it on that.

 

“No. I don’t.” In truth, he didn’t much care about her. She was good company. A nice girl, friendly, pretty. He didn’t consider her a friend, not really. She was just sort of there. 

 

“Do you think me ugly?”

 

“No.”

 

“Then… why…”

 

Why hadn’t he so much as touched her since their wedding? He couldn’t tell her that. He wanted to, so she wouldn’t blame herself, so she wouldn’t think she didn’t satisfy him, but he couldn’t. Patryk kept his answer as neutral as possible.

 

“I… love somebody else. That doesn’t mean I don’t like you, just… well, this is… this person, I’ve known them for a long time, longer than you and, well…” 

 

He thought he heard her sigh beside him.

 

“Why haven’t you married her?”  _ Her _ . If only.

 

“I can’t. It… I’m afraid it would be something of a scandal, if I’m perfectly honest.” 

 

“A low-born girl?” He figured that story was as good as any, so he went with it.

 

“Yes. A low-born girl.” Patryk was surprised when she didn’t sound disappointed. Or sad. Or angry. Instead, there was almost a melody to her voice he hadn’t heard since their wedding day, when she’d still had faith in him. Poor, poor girl. 

 

“That’s… that’s sort of romantic, almost…” He shrugged, forgetting she couldn’t see him in the dark.

 

“Are you… does she have… y’know?” Patryk didn’t know. 

 

“Uh, what?”

 

“Well, your uhm… has she ever… had your child?” Patryk couldn’t help but chuckle. 

 

“No, no she hasn’t… I don’t think she’s capable of having children, actually… either that or I’m blessed with luck.”

 

“Oh, so you have…”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Oh.” An awkward silence nestled between them and the words unsaid.

 

“Sorry. That I’m… such a disappointment to you,” Patryk confessed, though he wasn’t sure where it came from, “I’m sure this isn’t what you expected when you married a prince.” 

 

“No, not really. But then again, well. We can’t decide who our heart chooses.” No. They couldn’t. 

 

“Is there anybody you… like?” This time, the silence was loaded and she didn’t have to use words for Patryk to know the answer.

 

“You can… you can be with him if you like. Like… you know, any which way you want. I don’t mind. I’m sorry I can’t give you what you want, or deserve, is maybe the right word. But if… if there’s another person you… well. I’m just saying, if you were to… at some point, maybe, be with child, then… I wouldn’t be angry with you. And nobody would have to know.” 

 

She didn’t reply, so Patryk rolled onto his other side, hesitating for a second before deciding a kiss to the cheek would be insincere, especially after their conversation. 

 

Before he drifted off, he caught her last, hushed “thank you”.

  
  


*

  
  


Patryk took a horse out to the farm. He could find his way there blindfold at this point, his black mare confidently conducted through the forest, ignoring the roads, cutting through the countryside the quickest, shortest way to get to Piotr. 

 

The small farm lay tucked away surrounded by a few small fields shielded behind trees. Behind it there was nothing. No house, no farm, no sign of any human life as far as the eye could see, only a stretch of natural wood, and fields until the mountains appeared in the near distance. Patryk wanted to go there, one day. When they had a bit more time for themselves. Once his wretched father had passed. 

 

Piotr wasn’t outside, nor was he in the stables. Patryk snuck into the little hut, eager to make him jump, surprise him as he was cooking or cleaning. He couldn’t wait to see the smile on his face, the happiness in his eyes, the way they always glowed with life. Patryk envied him, tucked away here, far from the world that may harm him. One day, he swore to himself, one day he’d find a way he could be with him. 

 

He didn’t see Piotr at first. At first, the only thing that struck him was the smell. It was like something was rotting, like the idiot had left food out. Patryk immediately headed towards the table to see what it was that he’d not thrown out or eaten up, but on his way, he noticed Chłopiec. By noticed he meant he nearly fell over the big dog, lying on the floor, his head on his paws, gently crying. Patryk frowned down at him, reaching out a hand to stroke him. His heavy tail weakly thumped against the wooden floor. 

 

“Hey, boy, what’s the matter? Why are you lying here, where’s Piotr?” As though he could understand him, the dog cried louder, standing up and dancing around him.

 

It was then that he saw him. 

 

He forgot everything he’d wanted to say.

 

“Pa- p…” a loud cough escaped him and Patryk realised where the smell was coming from. It didn’t stop him from moving closer. 

 

“What… Piotr, what…” 

 

He shook his head weakly.

 

“You’re not real, you can’t… be here, you…” Patryk knew what it was. He knew right away.

 

He looked weak, tired. None of the life he knew so well shone in his eyes, only pain. His skin was blackened and scattered with pustules, fat, swollen, all over his arms and neck. Blood was running from them, thin, watery, like something was wrong. Very wrong. Well, of course it was. There was no doubt about it. And Patryk realised that, with the stench of rot, there mingled the smell of shit and piss and he couldn’t face looking anywhere but Piotr’s face.

 

“I’m here,” he said, his voice trembling, “it’s me, I’m here.” He coughed again, loudly, and Patryk wondered if he might truly vomit out a lung. 

 

“You can’t… you… you need to leave.” All Patryk could think to do was to shake his head.

 

“No, I’m not leaving you like this. How long has it been, love, how long have you been like this?” 

 

“Dunno…” the rasping in his voice almost broke Patryk, everything he did seemed to bring him pain. He wished he could stop it. Wished he could pray it away. 

 

Was this it? 

 

The punishment for their sins?

 

“I’ll get you help, just… just wait here, hang on, I’ll find a physician, I’ve come by horse, Piotr, just wait for me, I’ll be right back!” He was backing towards the door, not wanting to take his eyes off Piotr for a second but desperate to save him. 

 

He’d never thought the gutter rats would come for his love.

 

“No, no just… please don’t leave me.” Tears shot to Patryk’s eyes and panic clenched around his heart as he realised what the smell was.

 

Death.

 

He smelled of death.

 

“Okay,” he choked through the stinging in his own throat, the sorrow he had to swallow down, “okay, I’ll… I’ll stay.” 

 

He watched Piotr as he lay on his bed, every cough shaking his weak, broken body. 

 

“Do you want food or…” He shook his head. “You need water at least.”

 

“What’s the point? I’m a dead man.” Patryk had to sink his teeth into his bottom lip so as not to cry out.

 

“Don’t say that, Piotr, please…”

 

“It’s true. Nobody’s survived this. You… you shouldn’t… you should leave. I’m not… safe. Take Chłopiec, please, just…” When he reached out and took his hand, Piotr winced and whimpered for the pain of it. 

 

“I’m not leaving. I don’t care. You’re all I have, anyway, what would I do? I’m not going.” He wanted to hold him tight, kiss him and comfort him, see his smile, the sun in his eyes, the laughter lining his face, but all there was was pain and death. He didn’t want to hurt him. 

 

“What can I do? Tell me what I can do, love.” Piotr was trembling, if in pain or exhaustion, Patryk didn’t know.

 

“Just… just stay with me. Please.”

  
  
  
  


*

 

Patryk awoke in the night, Piotr’s violent coughs rattling around the little house he called his home more than the castle he’d known all his life. They were meant to be here together, meant to have their little farm with the well. It was so close to perfect already. 

 

“Pa...P…”

 

“I’m here.” he spoke soothingly, trying to banish the tremble of sorrow from his voice, “shhh, I’m here.”

 

“I’m scared…” 

 

“It’s okay, I’m here, love, don’t worry.” He took Piotr’s hand as tightly as he dared, holding it to comfort himself as much as him. His heart ached so much he feared it might shatter with every beat. 

 

“Can… can you take… me…” every time he broke down coughing, his world crumbled a little more at the edges, pillar after pillar falling. 

 

“Where, where do you want me to take you?”

 

“St-stream.” The stream. Patryk’s gut clenched at the thought of the way there, through tangled bushes and over uneven ground, half an hour on foot for a healthy man. 

 

He had the horse. Piotr’s wasn’t suited for riding, but Patryk’s… 

 

“Yes, sure. I’ll take you there, come on.” He got up, putting Piotr’s arm around his shoulder and holding him by his waist, doing his best to support his weight.

 

He whimpered in pain as Patryk all but dragged him out, matching Chłopiec’s squeaking. 

 

How the fuck would he get him onto a horse? 

 

Thankfully, it wasn’t a horse. Not technically. An Icelandic Pony, he believed they were called. Small, sturdy creatures, used in cold, harsh winters. Something about it soothed Patryk, made him feel at home. Piotr was in tears by the time he’d got him on its back, slumped over and secured like a bag of cornflower. 

 

“I’m sorry, my love,” he repeated, again and again as he hurt him over and over. “We’ll be there soon, don’t worry, it’ll be over soon.” He tried not to think about it as he climbed on Svali. With one last glance over his shoulder at what should have been their home, he kicked him into motion.

 

Throughout the ride, Patryk hear Piotr’s whimpers and strangled cries until he became too weak for even those. He turned to look, finding his eyes still open, still clinging to life and felt a sense of selfish relief wash over him.

 

He didn’t dare go into a canter, not even a trot, barely saving time but at least Piotr didn’t have to walk. At least that. He was careful as he took him off the horse, nonetheless unable to avoid causing him pain. He barely reacted anymore. 

 

“We’re nearly there, my love,” he muttered to him, “come on, you’ve nearly made it.” 

 

The last steps were almost agonising, Piotr’s weight, though barely that what it had been, heavy on Patryk’s shoulders as he dragged him through the trees, towards the rush of the river. 

 

He would have to bury him. If he didn’t, nobody would. He’d be left to rot on his own. Or found by a stranger, plundered and thrown in the river, a ditch, an unmarked grave with god knew how many others. Piotr. The king. 

 

He rested him against the stone by the riverbank, making sure he was as comfortable as possible before settling down next to him. He wasn’t certain fo the time, the cockerel hadn’t called before they’d left. The sun was barely rising behind the trees. Patryk took Piotr’s hand in his and held it to his lips, planting a gentle kiss on the back of his palm. Violent coughing took over his body once again, so hard and heavy Patryk feared every jolt would be his last. He clung on like he could make him stay that way. 

 

But Piotr relaxed again, settling further against the stone, his jaw unclenching. He weakly looked over at Patryk, his eyes dull. 

 

“How did you…” 

 

“I wanted to… to sell some of…” he didn’t finish the sentence before being shaken with another fit of coughs.

 

“‘M sorry…” Patryk shook his head.

 

“Don’t be.” A weak smile hinted at Piotr’s lips, only for a second.

 

“This… what we  get for… sodomy.” Through the tears he could no longer hold back, Patryk sniffed a laugh.

 

“Yeah, yeah, it occurred to me, too…” He took the grunt Piotr gave as a laugh.

 

“Worth it.”

 

“Yeah, worth it.” He sniffed, his cheeks now damp and the lump in his throat painful.

 

“You’re… s’beautiful.” Patryk smiled and he stroked over Piotr’s head, through his hair that was beginning to grow longer than he’d usually let it. 

 

“I don’t… wanna le-leave you.” The protest burned within him, tearing through every inch of his being, every part of him wanted to cling onto Piotr, cling on and never, never, never let go. 

 

“Then don’t.” 

 

“Okay.” Patryk’s attempt at a smile turned to a sob he failed to hold back.

 

“Don’t… cry.” 

 

“I’m not.”

 

“Liar.” 

 

“Bastard.”

 

Piotr gave another little grunt-laugh at that, then turned his eyes to the red morning sun beginning to bleed through the leaves.

 

“‘M scared…” He squeezed his hand tighter, putting his forehead against his temple. 

 

“Don’t be. I’m right here.” 

 

“Okay.” 

 

“I love you.” He felt Piotr give a satisfied sigh. He was too weak to talk now. Patryk’s jaw clenched almost painfully as he fought the sobs.

 

“You’re a total dumbass but I love you. No fucking clue why you picked me out. Or what that letter meant, you idiot.  _ You came to me in every dream _ . Was that a chat-up line? Probably. I already had the hots for you though so you could have written whatever and I’d have showed up. But you’re ever the romantic, aren’t you? Piotr?” 

 

He didn’t react. 

 

“Hey, come on, Piotr, come on, stay with me here, I… Piotr?” He felt something rub against his leg only to see Chłopiec nudging his master’s leg with his snout. 

 

An iron fist clenched around Patryk’s insides as his lip began to tremble and his vision was distorted by tears. 

 

“Piotr?” His eyes were empty. Grey, dead, no glow, no smile, no warmth behind them. Patryk choked on his sobs as he clung onto Piotr, wrapping his arms around him, pulling him close, as close as he could get him. 

 

“Don’t do this to me!” He sobbed in his ear as though he could still hear a word of what he said, “come on, don’t…” 

 

But words abandoned Patryk as the sun rose in his back and he cried his heart out in the cold embrace of Piotr’s lifeless body. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments and kudos would be sexy, tell me how much you hate me on [tumblr](https://scmi-sweet.tumblr.com/) though so I can get hate and feel important.


	5. Brotið

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is une mess bc I do nooot have a beeetaaa and am shiiiit at prooofreeeaadingggg
> 
> sorry.
> 
> anyway, next installment of our fateful lovebirds. Where will the universe spit them out now?

Even in the shade of the ship, the sun was scorching hot, worming its way into his frock and beneath his shirt, the linen doing little to keep him cool. It had been years since Patrick had last set foot on these shores, but the port of Bombay seemed as familiar as though it had only been yesterday he’d set sail for home. 

 

“Lord Stump, we’re glad to see you land safely!” For the sake of pleasantries, Patrick politely smiled at the Governour, surrounded by four guards and accompanied by what seemed like half his house. 

 

“I am happy to be back, Governour Lawrence. I see the place hasn’t changed much.” The first was a lie, the second a truthful observation. The docks stank and were filled with crates upon crates of goods, so many they couldn’t find room on the ships bringing them all over the empire. Britain had a full grasp on India and could not be faulted for not attempting to civilise it, yet it was still so much wilder than England. Patrick had barely managed to get used to the stench last time. 

 

“We have put you up in the Governour’s house this time, so that you needn’t take the daily journey across town upon yourself again. It will be quite comfortable for you.” He was more than grateful for that, he couldn’t deny it. Not only were the streets of the inner city unpleasant to walk through, but, at night especially, they were dangerous. The House, like the Company, were close to the harbour, the worst smell was the fish most of the time, not the stench of humans that was to be found further inland.

 

He followed the small party that had come to receive them up to his lodgings, a large, blue and white house overlooking the bay. They climbed the steps up to it, lined with exotic plants with large, saturated green leaves and even larger, even brighter flowers, pinks and oranges and blues. 

 

“I hope this room will be sufficient to you. Let my servants know if you require anything more, simply ring the bell.” Patrick nodded to show he’d followed the instructions.

 

“Thank you, Governour. I’m sure I’ll be most comfortable.” Oh, but how inviting the silk sheets looked after weeks with nothing but the hammock in his cabin. He had so missed proper beds. Patrick wondered if it would be proper of him to slip to sleep a little while, he was sure he wouldn’t be needed just yet.

 

“Make yourself at home, dinner is served at five. Deepika will come and get you.” And with that his host left, closing the door with a  _ click _ as Patrick let himself fall, still in his suit, onto the soft mattress of the king-sized. 

  
  
  
  
  


By the time he was torn out of his deep sleep by a loud knocking, the sun was lower in the sky, yet still far from the horizon. That was the way of things in the south, the sun did not set until the late hours. 

 

He had not permitted the girl to enter, yet she did so anyway. Patrick briefly considered telling her off for it, bursting in uninvited,as  far as she was aware he was in an indecent state, but he reminded himself to his promise to himself after what had happened last time. 

 

“Master Stump,” she began in a broad accent, Patrick decided not to correct her on his title, “dinner is served, if you would follow me, please.” He swung himself off the bed, marching to the dresser with long strides. 

 

“A moment, please… Deepika, was that your name?” She nodded. “I think I’ll get changed quickly, would you mind waiting outside, please?” With a modest bow, she closed the door on him once again, leaving him to pick out a less crumpled, less sweat-stained shirt. 

 

He looked himself over once in the dull mirror, his pale skin, so sensitive to the burning sun, his light hair, so fine, so thin, his short stature, no longer carrying the paunch he’d brought with him last time but still far from muscular. Physically, Patrick was less than desirable. But people wanted him, they wanted him for his skill, his position, his connections. The best diplomat the empire had seen in a long time, it was why he was sent to renegotiate trade deals, map out new trade routes, and tell everybody in Bombay they weren’t doing a good enough job. Which was the case this time. Nobody in the city knew his purpose, had only received news he would be in town, not what for. The shock would come tomorrow when he read out the threat of termination.

 

But for now, dinner was waiting for him. He slipped into his baby blue coat and trousers and buttoned up his fresh shirt before going to find Deepika still waiting by his door. He couldn’t help but wonder if the Governour still selected his help the way he had five, ten, twenty-five years ago or if the old man had become less of the creep over the years. Something in him doubted that very much.

  
  


*

 

The smells of the city were intriguing. At every corner a new herb, spice, undefinable scent would drift to his nose and cloud his brain, his judgement. The perfume was welcome, he found the side-effect of the lack of effective canals the city had rather repugnant, even after nothing more than a week. Everything seemed so much more colourful here, the flowers, the houses, the people, bright reds and yellows and greens surrounding him wherever he went, closely followed by the two guards that had been insisted upon by Governour Lawrence. As though anything bad would ever happen to him here.  In this exquisite paradise where everything was bright and blooming. 

 

Even the fruit was quite extraordinary. Sweet, juicy, fresh, so much more exciting than anything in England, so much better for not having sat in a crate for weeks on end. He tried to catch the juice running from his chin before it dripped onto his shirt, wiping at the mess around his mouth with his handkerchief. Patrick was in paradise and indulging in every pleasure it had on offer. 

 

Every pleasure.

 

He knew he had to be ever vigilant when surrounded by his peers, by men of court, by those he needed to impress so as not to fall flat on his arse, but here? Where it was more than easy to disappear into the crowd, slip away from the guards’ gaze for an hour or two? 

 

All it took was two quick turns for him to shake them off. It wasn’t hard if you wanted to and Patrick had always been small, had never struggled to disappear in a crowd. His hat prevented his blonde hair from standing out among the black, though his skin refused to turn any colour but lobster red in the southern sun. 

 

As he understood it, it would not be impossible to find the type of indulgence he was seeking, but he would have to be careful nonetheless. 

 

The brothels were kept and regulated by the British Empire, for the army more than anything, to discourage male intimacy. Unfortunately for them, Patrick himself had no interest in the prostitutes offered by the Empire, his taste was far more… inappropriate. But where there were women willing to accept his coin, men prepared to do the same could not be far. 

 

He spotted a good few of his crew making their way through the more questionable streets of Bombay, but after so long at sea, they could be forgiven for it, he thought. Patrick himself stayed in the side alleys of the side alleys, in search for something with less tits and more cock than his men preferred. 

 

He knew how this worked, was well versed in finding just what he wanted on the streets of London. They’d be posing as buyers but they would never buy. The trick was to watch, observe and if you noticed they weren’t offering money, you held their eye until they lead you to their own hunting grounds. 

 

But everybody was buying. 

 

Patrick turned on his heel and made his way back down the road, back through the small space between the whore houses, looking into any doors and windows that allowed him, convinced he must have missed somebody, something. Two months at sea with no relief but his own right hand and he was desperate for another man’s touch. 

 

He gave up as the sky turned red with the setting of the sun. He was, regrettably, quite lost. Certainly if he got to the coast, he could find the harbour and from there somebody to lead him back to his lodgings. 

 

The port was in the West, so all he had to do was follow the rays of the setting sun until the smell of the city gave way to the smell of the ocean. The docks were busier now than they had been during the day, now that the stuffy heat had subsided a little. Work was easier at night, surely. The natives knew that, they were making good use of it. 

 

He was unsure if they’d understand his English, but he knew none of their language, didn’t even know what their language was and, well, they must understand enough to be able to receive their instructions so…

 

He approached one of the men, the one hunched over the huge book Patrick recognised too well as the ledger. He had his back to him, but his skin was dark from exposure to the sun and his hair was short but coiled. The images inked into his back suggested he’d spent time at sea, though, and that combined with his knowledge of figures gave Patrick hope that he’d know the language.

 

“Uhm, good day.” The man turned so he was facing Patrick, who had something just shy of a heart attack when he met with beautiful, honey-gold eyes. 

 

“Uuuh-” he stammered helplessly, transfixed by the most gorgeous man he’d seen in at least two months. What was more, Patrick knew him. He  _ knew _ him. “I, uh…” 

 

“Shall we… start with your name?” His accent was perfect. So perfect that, were it not for his hair and complexion, Patrick could almost believe he was British.

 

“Patrick… I… Uhm…” Startled, he stared down when a rough-looking hand was held out to him.

 

“You can take it, it’s not poison.” Hesitantly, he gave the man’s hand a careful squeeze, faintly aware of how inappropriate it might seem.

 

“Peter. You can call me Pete if you ask nicely.”  _ Peter _ . He knew that already. Why did he know that?

 

“What do you need from me, Trick?” Patrick was so startled by the sudden reappearance of a man he thought he knew but couldn’t possibly that he didn’t even protest the nickname.

 

“I- my lodgings, I… am gonna need help finding them…” Peter… Pete turned his body round to face him, closing the book behind him. He crossed his arms and leaned back against the low table, mustering Patrick with a raised eyebrow.

 

“And what do you want me to do about it?” Patrick swore he wasn’t staring at the black markings on his tanned arms.

 

“I thought you… might help me? You… you know the city, right? You’re a… a local?” He felt himself redden as Pete snorted at his remark.

 

“Sure, I know the city. Why do you think I’d help you? I have work to do here.” With a roll of his eyes, Patrick tossed the man a single silver coin, hoping they could be done with this little discussion. 

 

“That’s not nearly enough for my time, kid. Where are you, anyway?”

 

That was a good question, actually. Where  _ was _ he staying?

 

“I uh… in the… north?” It felt like he was staying in the north. North seemed logical. Pete groaned.

 

“Don’t tell me you don’t know! How is anybody supposed to help you if you don’t know where you’re staying?” Patrick shrugged because he didn’t have a better answer to that. 

 

“Well what are you doing here? Maybe I can figure it out from that.” That he knew. 

 

“I’m here on behalf of his Majesty to address the East India Company and collect their annual report.” He didn’t mention the restructure. Didn’t mention by how much they would increase their export. How many more ships Peter would have to load. 

 

Peter just groaned.

 

“Okay, I should have known, really, white man in fine clothes? You’ve got  _ Empire _ written all over you.” 

 

“ _ Excuse  _ you?!” Patrick was shocked. More than shocked. He had not been insulted by anybody quite like that before, least of all a servant, a man of colour. He knew he could have him thrown out on the streets immediately if he so wanted.

 

“You heard me. Do you still want me to help you or not?” WIth a scowl, Patrick nodded. This was his best chance of finding back to his belongings. And something… something about Pete wouldn’t leave him alone, something familiar, something warm…

 

“Okay. Good. Come on, then.” Much to Patrick’s disappointment, he pulled a shirt that had been hanging over a nearby rope over his head, hiding the expanse of golden skin Patrick wanted to touch, to feel, it looked smooth and soft, surely fine gliding beneath his fingers. He could feel the weight of his still full purse - and even fuller balls - and wondered if, maybe, Peter would take his money for more than just a guided tour.

 

The way he pushed through the masses was magnificent, graceful and elegant, he weaved his way through the crowd of people like water through a valley. Patrick struggled to keep up with him, occasionally reaching out to catch his shirt and slow him down as he got pulled away by the flow of the passers by. 

 

“Come on, white man, keep up!” Pete shouted, twisting and turning through the over-crowded streets with a certainty Patrick couldn’t even find in Bristol or London. 

 

“So you  _ are _ local!” Pete laughed. 

 

“In a manner of speaking.”

 

“What does that mean?”   
  


“I was not born here!” Patrick nearly lost him as he quickly turned off into another street, a little less busy but still far from quiet.

 

“Then… where?”

 

“On a ship. Come on, keep up!” Patrick elbowed his way past a man trying to sell him more of the fruits that had caught his attention some hours before.    
  


“A ship? Where from?”

 

“England.” Pete jogged up some steps to the right, Patrick was really struggling to keep up with him now. 

 

“But… you’re not white!” Another laugh, this time louder, unfiltered.

 

“How very observant of you! However, I wasn’t aware there were only white people in England. Come on, I think this might be where you’ve been put up.”

 

Patrick jogged up to him, trying not to seem out of breath as he reached the entrance of what was hopefully his lodging. 

 

“Where in England?” 

 

“Ah, Trick, so full of questions. Come on, let me bring you to your room.”

 

Patrick, unassuming, followed Pete to the back of the house.

 

“So how long have you been in-” 

 

His words were cut off as he was slammed against the wall, all air leaving him in a rush and before he could get it back, his mouth was sealed with the hot press of strange lips against his. 

 

His brain disengaged the second it realised what was going on. 

 

“How long were you at sea for?” Pete’s voice was low, dangerous and as thick as honey. Patrick could barely choke out the words through the desperate pants already spilling out of him.

 

“Eight and a half weeks.” His cock was already hard and heavy on his breeches, every drop of blood he possessed filling it up, he could barely feel his feet. 

 

“Eight and a half weeks? That’s a long time…” for an answer, Patrick whined. 

 

“Mmh, no wonder you’re needy.” Oh but his mouth was  _ delicious _ , wet and willing and Patrick wanted so much more than just his tongue in it.  

 

“Please… Pete…” he wrapped his arms around the back of his neck and tried to pull him closer, try to move things on, past the sloppy kisses.

 

“Look at you, begging already… it makes me wonder, Patrick, if you were so desperate, why not just fuck one of your crew?” Pete stepped back, leaving him cold and Patrick whined in protest. His cock stiffened more than he’d thought it possible when Pete peeled off that damn shirt again, revealing his tan skin, his tattoos. Fuck, fuck he was too hot.

 

“Why, thank you” Patrick hadn’t even realised he’d said it out loud. “But you've not answered my question. Why not fuck your first mate? Your Bosun? The guy who cleans the deck?” Patrick’s hips were shifting uncomfortably and of their own accord, desperate, desperate to fuck into something,  _ anything _ . He reached a hand to his crotch, going to palm his cock through his breeches, but it was swatted away.

 

Pete merely held his gaze.

 

“Answer my question. Why. Didn’t. You. Fuck. Your. Men.” He was standing as close as he could without touching, Patrick could feel his body heat, wanted to feel more but… but…

 

“I couldn’t… they’re not…” Pete chuckled.

 

“You Englishmen, you’re so… polite. Respecting of the rules. As though men wouldn’t go for anything after that long at sea.” Patrick’s breath was heavy and sticky, caught in the space between them as he stared at Pete’s lips. 

 

“Tell me, Patrick… do you want me?” 

 

“Yes,” he breathed, “god, fuck, yes.” 

 

Their mouths clashed together, messy, too many teeth, too much spit, it was animal, primal. Patrick cried out when Pete’s fingers stroked over his clothed cock, so, so achingly hard. 

 

“Please,” he muttered like a prayer, “please, please, please.”   
  


“What do you want?” Pete’s hands were unknotting his shirt now, fingers getting caught in the linen as he slipped Patrick’s jacket off his shoulders. 

 

“What do you want, Patrick?” 

 

“Touch me.” Hips hips twitched involuntarily when a hand ghosted over his thigh.

 

“Touch you where?” He felt heat rising to his cheeks and he squeezed his eyes shut, focussing on kissing Pete, maybe he could drag him to where he wanted, no, needed him. 

 

“Touch you where, Patrick?”   
  


“My cock…” He felt Pete smirk against his lips before he nipped his bottom lip, making him wince. 

 

“How about,” he slurred, hands stroking up Patrick’s sides and bunching up his shirt as he went, “how about you get on your knees and suck me off with that pretty little mouth… then we’ll talk…” He shivered as his shirt was pulled off over his head, exposing his pale, less than slim torso. 

 

“No, you… I need.” 

 

“Shhhh,” he was silenced by the press of Pete’s lips to his own. “Be a good boy now.” Patrick mourned the loss of contact when he stepped back far enough to give him room to sink to his knees. 

 

He considered it for a second, the way he was being commanded about, pushed into doing this, then he was doing as he’d been told, lowering himself onto the floor until his knees hit the floorboards and he had to tilt his head back to look at Pete. Even from this angle he was hot, so hot. Way too hot. Patrick had never been with a brown man before. He’d heard stories, how they fucked like animals, how they had the biggest cocks of any men. Patrick licked his lips and began undoing the man’s breeches, lace for lace until he could pull them down to around his knees. His cock was straining in his underwear, a good length but shorter than his own and he was almost disappointed by the lack of truth to the stories he’d heard.

 

“Get on with it, kid” Pete commanded from above him, “don’t tease.” He couldn’t if he wanted to, the heavy, straining weight of his own cock was all Patrick could think about as he pulled down Pete’s underclothes, over his waist, past his hips and down his legs. His cock was thick, the same gold as his skin and just as smooth as Patrick wrapped his hand around it. Testingly, he gave it a few strokes, tightening and loosening his fist until he thought he had it right. When he looked up, Pete was biting his lip and staring down ad him, his hand resting on the side of Patrick’s face. 

 

“You look good down there,” he growled, voice heavy with want, “you’d look even better with those pretty lips around my cock.” Patrick, too desperate to think for himself, leaned in and parted his lips, letting hot breath hit the tip of his dick before  planting an open-mouthed kiss on it. Pete’s breath hitched and his fingers curled into Patrick’s hair as he gently sucked at it, making sure to run his tongue along the underside, where it was most sensitive. Above him, Pete’s breathing became more urgent, louder, heavier. Patrick felt the pressure against his lips as he pressed his hips forward, into his mouth until he was as far as he dared go.

 

“God, Patrick…” he breathed once Patrick had taken him in, his fist wrapping around the bit of his cock he couldn’t fit. He whimpered as he began sucking, moving his head in time with his hand, making sure to let his tongue skate over the pulsing veins along his shaft. 

 

But god, it was delicious. Before he could stop himself, Patrick was whining and moaning as best he could with a cock halfway down his throat, lapping at it desperately like he needed it the way he needed air, and when he sucked, he felt more than heard Pete’s strangled cry and the tremour of his legs. The salty tang of precome his his tongue and Patrick swallowed it down happily, going harder and faster and letting Pete’s cock slip further and further into him. 

 

Suddenly, a hand wound in his hair and when he opened his eyes and looked up, he met Pete’s. His hips twitched slightly as he asked for permission.

 

“Can I?” Patrick knew what he meant. He braced his hands on Pete’s thighs before giving a sharp nod, preparing for the rough slide of cock against his throat. He’d be fucked if he couldn’t talk tomorrow.

 

Pete, however, was careful. Patrick was almost shocked when he felt the slow pull of him, the way he gently circled his hips, testing the limits, how far he could go. Patrick felt his hand move to his jaw, cupping it gently, carefully guiding him along his length. It was only once he’d felt out the inside of him that Pete picked up his pace, roughly but shallowly thrusting his hips, sliding his leaking dick past Patrick’s lips time and time again. He was on tap, the bitter, salty taste of him never leaving Patrick’s mouth for even a second. 

 

“Fuck, you look good like this…” the hand gently cupping his chin wound into his hair again, tugging at it so Patrick’s eyes watered. “Mouth full of cock… good little Englishman you are.” Patrick whined, his own dick so hard it hurt, already leaking without even being touched.

 

“I’m gonna come,” Pete grunted as he picked up more speed, going deeper now, hitting the edge of Patrick’s gag reflex. “Gonna come right down your throat, that alright?” He nodded, struggling to breathe. 

 

“Good boy. Hold on tight.” Patrick’s fingertips buried themselves into Pete’s skin, hard enough to bruise, and he relaxed as best he could when Pete’s hands in his hair dragged him further down to meet the desperate thrust of his hips, accompanied by Pete’s heavy, laboured breathing and desperate whines as he fucked roughly into Patrick’s mouth until, with a strangled cry, he pulled him as far down onto his pulsating cock as he’d go and released, coating his tongue with the overwhelming taste of him. 

 

The fingers untangled from his hair and Pete leaned back, his chest heaving with heavy breaths as his eyes squeezed shut. 

 

As Patrick stood up, his knees were shaking from being pressed to the wooden floor for so long, cock still neglected in his breeches. 

 

Pete had barely caught his breath again when Patrick was seeking out his mouth, urgent for his turn, desperate for release. Pete chuckled against his lips.

 

“White man, you are funny. So desperate. Be a little patient.” But Patrick had no ounce of patience left.

 

He bit down on Pete’s bottom lip and released it with a slow drag, growling:

 

“Two months I’ve been waiting. I’ve been patient enough.” Before he could say anything more, he was being grabbed and shoved against the wall, so hard his spine would surely bruise. But he couldn’t complain as Pete grabbed at his breeches, kissing him hot, messy, desperate. All Patrick could do was gasp pathetically when a rough palm wrapped around his cock, so hard, so, so hard, and stroked.

 

“Impressive,” Pete muttered against his lips, “I’m almost curious to know what it feels like.” 

 

_ Do it _ , he wanted to reply,  _ blow me, ride me _ , but all he could manage was a whimper as Pete pushed his clothes past his thighs, releasing his angry, pink, leaking cock.

 

He wanted so much, wanted to feel the heat of Pete’s body surrounding him, the slick of his saliva, the thrum of his hole, wanted to lie him down and fuck him into oblivion, wanted to open his legs and let Pete suck every last drop out of him, but with the sting of sharp teeth sinking into his neck and the blissful, glorious pull of another man’s skin against his own, he came, way too quickly and way too hard, with a strangled cry.

 

Patrick was almost convinced he’d passed out from the force of the pleasure tearing through all of him, eating him up, but when his wits returned, he was still standing, Pete’s hands still stroking his softening cock. He winced at the sensitivity of it and felt the man smirk against his skin.

 

“You were an easy one.” 

 

Under normal circumstances, Patrick would have a clever quip to throw back at him, but in the afterglow of his orgasm and too tired to stand properly, all he managed to get out was a weak “Fuck you.”

  
  


*

 

His stomach was full enough to burst by the time he fell back into bed. His late afternoon nap had all but ruined any chance he stood at sleep, though maybe if he just lay here and closed his eyes he’d get enough rest to last him until this time the next day. 

 

The sun had set now, the only light that from the candle beside him, still burning as he stared unseeingly at the ceiling.

 

He couldn’t deny the disappointment in his gut.

 

But then again, what had he expected? Four years he’d been gone. India didn’t stop moving just because he wasn’t in it. 

 

Everything was too quiet and too loud at once, the noises that bled through to him far away, not right beside him like last time. A part of him missed the familiarity of the inn and later his little house further in the city, not out here where all there was was the rush of the sea and distant calls from the docks. 

 

Too much had changed in four years. Too much had changed, yet stayed the same. The same people. Different make-up. Even he was different. Or maybe that was just it. 

 

Patrick was so drowned in his own contemplation he never heard the door opening. All he knew was the sudden cold of skin against his face, pressing down on his mouth, holding it shut, stopping his breathing, muffling his cries and he clawed at it urgently, desperately, trying to get it off, away from him aw-

 

“Shhh, only me.” 

 

He thought he might cry at the sound of his voice. 

 

The hand was removed from his face, but the mark of it burned hot on Patrick’s skin. As he sat up, he was a face, so familiar yet so strange, in the dim light, eyes gleaming with life, beaming up at him with a huge, shit-eating grin. In his chest, Patrick’s heart hammered away at a thousand miles a second. 

 

“Miss me?” 

 

_ Miss him _ ? Every night he had thought of him, every day, every second he was conscious and a lot of them he wasn’t. He’d written letters he’d never sent, written poems, written songs, tried to draw his face so he wouldn’t forget it, spent every night dreaming of him, his laugh, his smile, the warmth of his arms and when he hadn’t woken beside him, the world felt a little bleaker than it once had done. 

 

Suddenly, Bombay was filled with colour as Patrick pulled Pete into the tightest hug he could, holding him so close they might melt into each other and become one.

 

The way he was certain they were meant to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments and kudos would b nice ladz, my tumblr is [here](https://www.scmi-sweet.tumblr.com)


	6. Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oopz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey LADDIEZ
> 
> welcome BACC  
> to the suffering. I'm writing this at midnight with a shit internet connection annnnd it's so shit my doc keeps not loading and I have NO chill anymore so this is a huge-ass mess I am so sorry so sorry so so sorry sorry ssooo sssooorrryy so sorry s
> 
> I hope you... enjoy?
> 
> (you sick fuckin bastards why do you do this to yourselves)
> 
> mmmmkay BAIIII

“So as I understand, we made a profit of a hundred and fifty pounds for each shipload last year?”  Patrick yawned, not only widely but loudly, earning him displeased looks from all sides. What could he say? He’d been up late last night. The rum here was strong and good and the men were beautiful. This was the best job he’d ever got! 

 

“Yes. On average. There and there abouts.” The chairman sighed. 

 

“And you want us to increase upon that?” He posed the question as though it were an impossible task, but Patrick already had a list of solutions to his little problem somewhere beneath the pile of financial breakdowns of the last 18 months. 

 

“His Majesty wants you to increase upon that. I’m just the messenger, I’ll remind you again.” Patrick picked one of the papers off the pile in front of him and began neatly folding it into a little boat. Chequer Martin seemed somewhat irritated by this, but Patrick needn’t worry about the opinion he held of him. He didn’t yet outrank him, but he was certain he would any time soon, the Lordship surely just around the corner. 

 

“And how, may I ask, does his Majesty intend we do so? Has he written out a business plan? Laid out the numbers?”

 

“No,” Patrick admitted in a casual tone, mustering his fingernails, “but I have.” Finally his moment, he whipped out the documents he’d prepared and stood up, pacing the room as he read.

 

“The key is cheaper production. You can’t hike up prices, not significantly, anyway, I’d still everage that, send everything up by a penny but one product, I’d suggest cinnamon, lower that a little but not so much it counteracts the increase of the other products. Only by a penny or so. 

 

“The key to cheaper production, gentlemen, is cheaper labour. How many of the men by the docks do you pay? The ones loading the ships?”

 

“All the men and some of the children.”

 

“Mmh, pay all of them, but less. If they don’t like it, they can leave, plenty of other people around urgent for any sort of work. Don’t worry about it, we’re still the biggest employer in the city, people will flock to us nonetheless. How many white men in your employment? A percentage, if you please.”

 

“Maybe… 15? In this city.” 

 

“Lower that to 7, white labour is more expensive.” 

 

“As you wish.” Patrick catches a glimpse of the chairman in a mocking bow, undoubtedly believing he is out of sight. If there’s one thing Patrick is certain of, it’s that he is good at commanding respect. Respect comes from power. Power is but an illusion. He knows how it works, what men fear.

 

“I do wish,” he snapped, all of a sudden, his eyes burning into the old man’s until he was cowering beneath them, “and, more importantly, the King wishes. If you aren’t happy to oblige, I’d be more than happy to let him know because, frankly, Chairman Sellers, you’ve been in this position for three years and not once have we seen an increase of profit. So do as you’re told by men who understand more than business of you and shut your mouth before you even think of calling me a boy, I am not only older than I look but better at this job than you are at yours.” 

 

Silence fell over the room. Patrick had won this one.

 

“Cut white labour. Inflate prices, withhold some of the goods, a shortage makes an increase more plausible. You’ll reach the 180 mark in no time and, just by the way, there’ve been increasing numbers of pirates in the Arabian sea. There will be further military reinforcement sent in a few weeks’ time.” 

 

With that, he picked up the rest of his papers and left. 

  
  


*

 

“You sweat so easy, white man.” Pete rolled off him with a shit-eating grin firmly plastered onto his face and Patrick winced at the feeling of his softening cock slipping out. It was a stupid thing to say, Pete was sporting damp skin himself, though unsurprisingly, really. He’d been doing all the work.

 

“Shut up,” Patrick muttered, turning his head to the side to capture Pete’s lips in a gentle kiss. 

 

“Mmh, but teasing you is so much fun.” 

 

“Whatever, you’re insufferable.”

 

“And yet you put up with me.”

 

“You’re a decent fuck.” Pete backed off, mouth dropping open in insult.

 

“ _ Decent _ ? Tell that to your past you about three minutes ago!” He rolled his eyes and motioned for Pete to ie back down and shut up.

 

“Stop being so dramatic.”

 

“Shan’t.” 

 

“Fine.” But Pete still pressed a kiss to Patrick’s forehead before falling back down into his pillow.

 

For Patrick, this meant it was bedtime. The clock was tickling 1 a.m. and he had a meeting with the gorvernour tomorrow. He should at least pretend to be making an effort. 

 

Pete, however, didn’t seem to be set on falling asleep any time soon.

 

“Man, if my father found out about this… we’d both be fucked. So fucked.” He laughed into the dark as though it was a funny remark.

 

“Doubt that. You, maybe, but I’d be juuust fine.” 

 

“No you would not.”

 

“Sure I would, what would he do to me, honestly?” 

 

“Well he could throw you in jail for one thing.” Patrick, quitting on sleep, turned to glare at Pete over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. Pete merely shrugged.

 

“Just saying. It’s illegal.”

 

“I’ll just deny it, who are they gonna believe, a commoner or me? A-”

 

“White man?”

 

“I was gonna say Cutler.” 

 

“Sure you were.” Pete flopped into the mattress with a huff, his back turned. 

 

“What?! What is it now?!” He was met with nothing but a grunt.

 

“Oh, come on, at least tell me why you’re sulking!” Pete didn’t react. Out of options, Patrick rolled closer to him and reached out a hand, placing it gently on his shoulder. Pete flinched away, shuffling further to the edge of the squeaky bed.

 

“Pete, come on, talk to me, what is it?” Patrick was sure it was because he’s insulted his lovemaking skills or maybe this was still about him dodging the kiss yesterday.

 

“You’re so mean sometimes.” It took him aback, honestly. Of all the things he didn’t expect an outright declaration that he was an unpleasant person.

 

“Why? What did I do?”

 

“You know I’m not white, yeah? Like you noticed that?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Then why are you so mean about everybody who isn’t white? Why do you insult brown people in front of a brown man? Do you even like me? I get the feeling I’m only here for you to fuck and insult.” 

 

Patrick is dumbfounded. Not knowing what to do, he simply sits, mouth agape, and stares until Pete turns to look at him.

 

“Do you? Do you even like me?”

 

“I- yes, I do, I-”  _ a little too much _ . 

 

“Then why?”   
  


“I… didn’t realise if I’m honest, I just… I…” 

 

“You didn’t realise insulting people of my colour might hurt me?”

 

“No, I… I mean, you’re different, you-”

 

“No, Patrick, no I’m not. We’re all people just like you, just like your King, just like my father. I’m tired of being treated as second best.” The fragment that caught Patrick’s attention probably hadn’t been the one Pete was hoping to emphasise.

 

“Your father?” 

 

“My father.”

 

“Your father is-”

 

“A white man. And here now. So when I said he could have you thrown in jail, i meant it.” Patrick froze, the weight of Pete’s words hitting him. All of them. And what he’d commanded hours before, the document now laid out before the Company, ready to be executed. 

 

“No need to look so shocked, Patrick. There’s more mutts running around Bombay than you could possibly count.”

 

“Who’s your mother?” Pete shrugged. 

 

“A slave. I don’t know her. My father got bored of her after I’d been born. Kept me. Left her behind somewhere along the way.” He said it as though it were nothing, as though it were normal.

 

“That’s horrible.”

 

“Happens all the time.” 

 

“He took you from your mother to let you work loading ships?” 

 

“I’m cheap labour.” Patrick’s own words rang in his ears and stung his gut. “Besides, it’s a comfortable life for me. He doesn’t treat me like he treats his actual sons, yanno, his heirs, but I have a comfortable bed. More comfortable than yours, for sure. And the ability to climb ranks if I wish.” Patrick frowned. If he was able to provide for his bastard son and even allow him something of a career, he must be a wealthy man, for sure.

 

“Who… who is your father?” Pete looked at him with large, honey golden eyes that burned orange in the candlelight. He was, truly, a gorgeous human being, there was no denying that. But Patrick dreaded the answer, distracted himself with his face.

 

“My… father is Governour Lawrence.”

 

*

 

Patrick was having a rather hard time focusing on the book keeper rather than the fine man standing beside him. Pete had changed. His baggy clothes exchanged for white breeches and a red doublet, rapier hanging by his side, boots hugging his calves. His face was always clean-shaven and he wore a black wig, tied to a ponytail at the back of his head, and a black tricorn with a white feather finishing the outfit off. 

 

Patrick couldn’t say he was opposed to an attractive man in uniform. 

 

What was more, Pete was carrying himself beautifully. His new role suited him, Commodore of the Bombay Marine. Maybe Patrick had used the phrase “you can board my ship any time” the night before. Maybe Pete had broke down in bellowing laughter to the point of cramps. 

 

Now, when their eyes met, he simply struggled to hide a mischievous smirk that, damn it, wasn’t making Patrick’s dick any softer. 

 

He wished it was just them in the room, wished there were no guards, no maids, no chairman trying to peer into his notes. They feared him since the last time, he could tell. He increased profits but cut positions, gave them a good slap across the fingers. He wasn’t here for that now. He didn’t care much what the company did. There was only one reason he’d accepted the task.

 

“So… is our yearly report… to your satisfaction?” the stuffy old goat muttered from behind his neckcloth. Patrick merely shrugged.

 

“It will suffice for what I need.” Pete smirked. 

 

“May I ask, lord Stump, what exactly  _ do  _ you need? Why are you here?” Wanting nothing more than to get out into the glorious sunshine and catch the pleasant evening warmth with a beautiful man in his lap feeding him pomelo. He wished they didn’t have to be so careful about it. 

 

He closed the book with a loud  _ thump,  _ making the table rattle. One stern look at the chairman was enough to make him shrink away like a child. Patrick did not bother with a verbal reply, merely nodded sharply at Pete and walked out. 

 

He was done with his job. At night he dreamed of a home among the stars, free to go wherever he pleased and free of judgement from the people below. During the day he dreamt of a home in the mountains of in the basin, somewhere nobody ever came by, somewhere they would be left in peace. 

 

Pete knew discretion as well as he did, especially now with his position. They knew where to meet, though they’d take different routes there. In the lower parts of the city, where the people lived with rats, they care little about the affairs of the high-born. It stank and was covered in piss and shit but it was somewhat safe. And there was this one spot, this one, special spot where if you stood at just the right angle, you could look through the rows of huts and onto the ocean. Maybe, one day, they’d find an excuse to leave the city. 

 

Pete arrived maybe half an hour after him. He’d changed out of his uniform, wearing a white shirt and black breeches, the hat gone from his head, the wig removed to reveal his now close-shaven hair. Patrick reached up to it, pulling him closer, into a kiss. It was sweet, well-deserved after a day surrounded by dusty old men. Pete’s hands found their way to his waist, lightly holding onto him, holding him close. 

 

Somewhere, a child was laughing. 

 

“Some day, huh?” Patrick rolled his eyes in agreement. 

 

“I hate this company. Corrupt, old shits who have no respect for human life… they treat men like they’re animals, work them to death for no decent pay.”

 

“You’ve changed your tone since the last time.” It felt like a betrayal to himself. The weight of what he’d done and the ripple-effect it had lead to was heavy on his shoulders and the guilt? Well, he feared that would never leave him.

 

“I am sorry,” he mumbled, barely an apology considering what he’d left behind, “I regret every word I said, truly. And I’m aware of… of what I’ve done, how much suffering it caused. In honesty, when I got back here, I feared you wouldn’t want me for it.”

 

Warm, strong arms wrapped around him, pulling him into a tight embrace. He could feel the beat of Pete’s heart against his chest. They were all the same.

 

“I don’t think I could not want you if I tried. Believe me, I did. But when I heard you were returning I couldn’t ignore how happy hat made me.” Patrick smiled into the soft linen of his shirt, damp with sweat. 

 

Two hands cupped his face, thumbs gently stroking over his cheekbones.

 

“You’re so skinny now, I barely recognised you.” 

 

“I just lost the baby fat.”   
  
“No, this is more. Are you eating well?” Patrick shrugged.

 

“Well enough. Less, for sure. I’m healthy.” Half-reassured, Pete nodded before pressing a light kiss to Patrick’s forehead. It felt nice. Warm.

 

“You wanna go to the beach?” Part of him didn’t. They couldn’t be this close by the beach, too many people, too many important people, too many important people that wouldn’t hesitate to sell them out. He agreed because Pete loved the sea. 

 

They bought Starfruit from the market they came across on their way and sat by the pier, their legs dangling off the side, the ocean stretching out infinitely before them. Patrick wanted nothing more than to shuffle closer and rest his head on Pete’s shoulder.

 

“Did you hear,” Pete was gossiping away beside him, had been for 15 minutes, “that Brigadier Powell’s daughter is pregnant? Out of wedlock? It’s the latest scandal going around town, well, around the ranks. Nobody knows who it was but I figure it was Sai, those two get along a little too well in my humble opinion.” 

 

“No, I didn’t hear. What will happen to her? And the baby?”

 

“It’ll likely be hushed up, there’s only rumours so far, nothing concrete. The baby will be given away and she’ll be married off to whoever will have her. Maybe sent back to England, the news might not have travelled so far. But her husband is going to be in for a surprise when he finds she’s already lost her virtue.” Patrick laughed at him when he failed to catch a piece of the fruit with his mouth, instead dropping it into the sea below and pouting at the waves as though they were to blame. 

 

“Can you tell those things?” 

 

Apparently, judging by Pete’s raised eyebrows, that was a stupid question.

 

“Women have this… this piece of skin over their flower and, well. That tears.” 

 

“That sounds… horrendous.”

 

“Looks horrendous, lots of blood.” He pulls a face, grateful he’s not had to deal with such things. He doesn’t ask why Pete knows, never does. He’s fully aware that Pete’s not like him, that he looks at women the way he looks at men. As long as he looks at none of them the way he looks at him, Patrick has nothing to complain about. 

 

“I fear I will never understand women quite the way you do.” Patrick confesses, taking a drink from his flask. 

 

“You don’t need to as long as I’m around.” Oh, how beautiful he looks when he gives him that mischievous grin. Patrick so, so wishes he could lean into that golden-brown gaze and brush their lips together. 

 

Pete sneaks into Patrick’s room once he’s in bed. Dressed in dark clothes and not carrying a candle so as not to be seen. Patrick feels him settle beside him, feels two arms wrap around him and pull him close. He slings his leg over Pete’s, turning so their noses are touching. He hears him giggle like a little girl at the feeling of it and Patrick thinks his heart might burst. He thinks about fucking him, about rolling him onto his back, stripping him of his shirt and sinking into his body, but he’s tired. So very tired. It can wait until the morning. He presses a last kiss to Pete’s lips and wishes him a good night.

  
  


*

 

The morning comes in the form of butterfly kisses on his eyelids and a comforting hug. Patrick’s smiling before his eyes even open, aware of Pete’s heat, scent and touch before anything else. 

 

“Morning sleepy.”

 

“Mmmh, how late is it?” He blinks the sunlight away, too bright too early, and snuggles into Pete’s nightshirt. 

 

“No idea, you don’t have a clock in here. How do you wake up on time?” 

 

“Deepika.” He decided it was too early to be awake and let himself drift back off into a slumber. 

 

“Hey, hey, no, none of that, my arm’s going numb, man! Come on!” 

 

“Mmmmh!” 

 

“You utter child.”

 

“Mmmmmh!” He flopped onto his belly as Pete wriggled out from beneath him. Graceful as always.

 

“No, come back!” Half-awake, Patrick reached out for him, making grabby hands. 

 

“I’ve got things to do, places to be!” 

 

“Yeah, me and here.” Pete tutted, turning to the pile of clothes he’d brought with him the night before and Patrick decided it was time to play dirty. From his spot on the bed, he could reach over and touch Pete if he only rolled onto his side.He shuffled over, extending his arm until he was brushing the hem of his shirt.

 

Pete yelpd and clasped a hand over his mouth when Patrick’s cold fingers stroked over his balls. It was quickly followed by a jarred breath, drawn hastily. 

 

“Patrick…”

 

“Come on, Peter.” 

 

“I can’t I have work to do…” He tries to step away but Patrick holds onto his thigh. From the way the skin pulls around his fingers, he can tell it’s working. Pete’s half-way to a hard-on. Patrick, unfortunately, can’t quite reach his cock, so he begins teasing his balls before slowly, slowly moving further back. Pete freezes when he brushes between his cheeks, only for a second but enough for Patrick to know he’d won.

He pulled away, rolled onto his back and propped himself up on his elbows, watching as Pete, with a glare in his eye, turned to him, leapt at him and, within seconds, was straddling him, a hand around Patrick’s throat, holding him in place as he rocked their hips together. Patrick could see the outline of his cock below the nightshirt, eager for release and, by the looks of things, Pete wasn’t going to wait for one much longer. He claimed Patrick’s lips with his, his tongue diving into his mouth, hot and desperate and hungry. Patrick gasped as his own shirt was pulled up, revealing his own hard length. Pete leaned forward, letting it brush against him, moaning quietly as he pushed back and Patrick felt the pressure of him against the head of his cock, so willing to let him in and, god, it hadn’t even been that long but he needed it, needed  _ him _ , needed to feel Pete close to him, with him, part of him.

“I love you,” he whispered against his lips and Pete whispered it back and for a moment Patrick felt like he had the world.

Too soon. A second too soon.

When the door burst open, it wasn’t Deepika, it was Joseph Lawrence, the Governour’s son, and four soldiers. Patrick could barely grab another touch, another kiss from Pete before two pairs of hands were on him, dragging him away, Patrick tried to reach for him but couldn’t touch, couldn’t hold on and damned be he, if only he’d not been so hungry and selfish, if only he’d let Pete leave five minutes ago. 

If only. 

Patrick got up with no struggle, following the men where they dragged him because what else could he do? He was still small, he was still weak. 

He could do nothing but watch as they beat Pete down and kicked him when he was. He tried to tell him not to fight back, to just go, but he wouldn’t listen. He never did. 

The last he saw of Pete was his body, unmoving (lifeless?) being dragged across the room. Then, only darkness.

  
  


*

 

“What have you done?” 

 

“I’m sorry?” Patrick looked up from his book - a copy of Johnson’s  _ A Journey To The Western Islands Of Scotland  _ he was rather enjoying - to find Pete nothing short of enraged. 

 

“I said: What. Have you. Done,” he spat. 

 

“I’m not quite sure, my love, what it is I’m supposed to have done.” 

 

Pete ölooked ike he was a second aways from murder. The rage in his eyes was uncompared, Patrick had never seen him quite like this before, not once in the three years they’d known each other. Now. Of all the times.

 

“I know what you told the company. After you  _ swore _ to me you’d never… never look down on me or my people again, here you are! You… you told them, you  _ told them _ we were cheap labour, you  _ said _ -” he was yelling now, his face red with fury and his fists balled at his sides and for a horrendous moment, Patrick was scared. 

 

The truth? He’d forgotten about it. He’d forgotten about the commands he’d given the company all those years ago, they’d fallen from his mind like autumn leaves. He tried to articulate this, tried to say it, but he couldn’t, his mouth wasn’t making the sounds he wanted, wasn’t forming the words he needed. 

 

“Maybe it’s good you’re going,” Pete scoffed, “I don’t want to see you.”

 

Saying it was a knife to Patrick’s heart was an understatement. Saying his world crumbled to nothing but ashes and dust? Came closer to the feeling. When he managed to find words, his voice was dry and on the brink of breaking and it took him way too long to say it.

 

Pete was already gone.

  
  


*

 

Patrick was grateful for the sunlight. He’d feared he’d never see it again, locked away between damp walls and cold, iron bars. The half-rotten scraps thrown to him yesterday had long since left him, leaving him starving and thirsty as he stepped out into fresh air for the first time in what must have been weeks. He was different now, he knew it, all his dignity stripped from him, his hair too long, his beard growing untamed. He reminded himself it didn’t matter. Nothing would ever matter again. It was almost, in a perverted way, a relief.

 

He thought he might choke on his sobs when he saw him, already standing there, above the crowd, looking as awful as he did and yet still managing to be the most beautiful human for miles around. He was still holding his head high. Patrick couldn’t. Patrick had given up the moment the door had swung open. He’d never been much of a fighter if there was nothing to be won. 

 

Pete was held back as he was pushed onto the wooden platform, landing on his knees. Undignified. It didn’t matter. Patrick was picked up off the floor like a sack of rotten potatoes, and made to stand, legs a shoulder’s width apart, next to Pete. The fire still burned in his eyes. Of course it would. How couldn’t it? Patrick thought he remembered a time when he was fire. Or maybe ice. He wasn’t sure. His life sometimes seemed like a blur to him. He wondered if Pete ever shared that feeling. 

 

“Lord Patrick Stump, Commodore Peter Lawrence. You have been found guilty of sodomy. By the power of His Majesty, King George II, I sentence you to hang by the neck until death.” At least the rope was long, Patrick thought, clean, quick. He could ask for worse.

 

“Some father you are!” Pete bellowed across the crowd because, of course, he couldn’t help himself. Patrick reached out to him, wanted to soothe him, but found his arm restrained by the guard. 

 

“You are no son of mine. A bastard living under my roof, enjoying my position! I allowed you more freedoms and rights and dignity than you were ever entitled to! The bastard of a common negro whore!” Patrick’s chest tightened in panic as he felt the roughness of the rope against his neck. It was around Pete’s too, one pull of the lever and he would be dead. His Pete. His beautiful Pete. He could not lose him again. 

 

“You will burn in hell for your sins!” Lawrence bellowed back.

 

“And you will join me there!” 

 

Over the noise of the yelling crowd, Pete’s yelling and the cry of the seagulls, Patrick’s near-silent declaration went unheard.

 

The vertigo only lasted a second. 

 

He wasn’t sure if that sound was Pete’s neck or his own.

 

There was no time to dwell on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope that was okay-ish.
> 
> pls comment and kudos it takes like 0.2 secs and makes an unpaid creator v happ. Also say hi on [tumblr](https://www.scmi-sweet.tumblr.com) bc I am a lonely bitch and need friends 24/7 so talk to me so snitch doesn't carry the burden that is myself alone.
> 
> thank.
> 
> see u hopefully next week i will TRY but I have a v busy week up ahead. Pls don't do me a murder.
> 
> thank.

**Author's Note:**

> kudos n comments if u want idk, my tumblr is scmi-sweet


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